


Written in Dust, Carved in Bone

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional pain, Enemies, Graphic Sex, Hurt, M/M, Plot, Sex, Violence, War, issues of consent, so many triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 94,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29462097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: Richard Sharpe heads off on a mission and finds more than just a guerilla stronghold - he finds renegade Englishman, Carlyle.  Carlyle might just resemble Alan Rickman in the casting couch of my brain.Beware vast amounts of angst, violence, sex, pain, struggle, more sex, more pain - as well as a little purple prose, a passionate relationship, romance and a lot of lavender soap...Please excuse dreadful Spanish, truly appalling historical inaccuracies and, as I can't find a final final version, some errors.
Relationships: Patrick Harper/Ramona Harper, Richard Sharpe/Original male character, Richard Sharpe/Patrick Harper
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**WRITTEN IN DUST, CARVED IN BONE**

PROLOGUE

_The Portuguese/Spanish borderlands, 1812._

It was as hot a night as hell itself ever saw; or so Sergeant Patrick Harper was certain. Despite the fact that he was lying naked on a carefully heaped mound of straw, and was happily enjoying the unusual pleasure of a night spent away from both the snores of his men and the more welcome curves of Ramona, his Spanish wife-in-all-but-name, on any other night he would have seriously wondered if it would be more comfortable to abandon the hay-loft in exchange for rough ground and the possibility of some air. But not tonight. Instead of creeping down to find a breath of breeze Harper stayed where he was; he didn't move at all, just sighed softly to himself. For a man so used to sharing every hour of the day, such solitariness was a pleasure akin to tasting the finest brandy, and one almost as rarely indulged. Especially as it was soon to become a solitariness shared by two; for tonight he was indulging in an assignation.

Harper grinned at the shadowy beams above his head. Turning onto his back, he stretched both arms out wide to catch the thin thread of air that made it past the open loft-door; sighing as a tickle of breeze stirred the hairs on his chest and giving a wriggle as the straw scratched at his back. He stilled happily, that was better. Not perfect, but better.

Harper closed his eyes and settled deeper into the make-do mattress. The night was very still, the barn softly settling around him with the occasional gentle creek of wood and sigh of straw settling. The silence was so pleasant, not a snore to be heard. He smiled into the shadowy beams above his head and remembered with a thrill of anticipation why he was here. The smile spread itself into a grin.

Captain Richard Sharpe. His captain. A man for whom there was nothing Harper would not have done.

The simple fact that Harper was a Irishman and Sharpe English, made this a surprise to everyone, including the two men involved. It was a toss up who Harper hated most, the English or officers. Both were soft, murdering bastards, and English officers had to be ranked high up with the worst of all. Except Sharpe, for Sharpe was different, something it hadn't taken long, after a short misunderstanding, for the Irishman to find out.

Sharpe had been raised from the ranks by Wellesley himself, going overnight from sergeant to lieutenant and fighting every day from then on to win not only the respect of his fellow officers, but also that of his men who considered themselves short-changed by not having an officer who talked as if he had a plum in his mouth and cared for them as little as if they were cattle. Winning over the men had been easy enough, Sharpe never got his men killed without reason, and he cared, so much so that he sometimes seemed to shoulder all the troubles of the war. He also fought like a man possessed, and had proved himself lucky on more than one occasion, a fact more valuable to the ordinary soldier than all the gold in Spain. Respect and admiration, awe and obedience were his due from his men. The officers of the regiment proved harder, but as Sharpe didn't appear to give a damn, Harper didn't care about them either. What Sharpe wanted, Harper endeavoured to get, what annoyed Sharpe, Harper did his best to get rid of. They worked together well, and the fact that on occasions they managed to find a secret place of pleasure for themselves amidst the carnage and mayhem of a very bloody war, served to make their relationship - in Harper's experience, for there were rumours about certain other men, but nothing that had been substantiated - unique.

He sighed and, against his will, felt himself begin the slow drift towards sleep; his limbs weighted, his mind slowing. It wouldn't take much to slide all the way. It must be late. Late and finally getting cooler.

Sharpe should be here by now.

Not that Harper would be getting much sleep if he was. Demanding in every way, that was Sharpe. On and off the battlefield. He grinned, wondering what the stuffed-shirts would make of their liaison, for a start they'd have Sharpe's officers sash off him faster than anything. And his own stripes. That and maybe their lives; funny about that sort of thing, the army was. He grinned again, certain that he was safe.

Then he heard it; a soft chink of metal on metal.

The old wood of the small barn creaked gently, the noise hardly more than a settling of joists and the easing of sun-baked wood as it cooled. One soft sound among many. But he knew. And within moments the shadows shifted, hardening into the shape of a man climbing through the loft's open hatch.

"Pat?"

The whisper hardly stirred the night, but it was enough.

"Captain."

"Ay. Sorry it took me so long, did I wake you?"

"No, it's too damn hot to sleep." Harper shifted on the blanket, propping himself on an elbow so he could watch the dark clothes being removed. "I knew you'd be here if you could."

"Damn right. Where's Ramona?"

"With Mary Fields. She's due any hour now."

"Which leaves you to me." Sharpe was smiling, the moonlight catching his face as he turned and stripped off his shirt. Neither man raised his voice above a murmur; neither had any desire to be caught.

"Exactly, sir."

"Sir!" Sharpe gently mocked his sergeant's tone. "Where d'you think we are, on the bloody parade ground?"

"Not dressed like this, that's for sure."

"Make a strange sight, I'll give you that." Sharpe stepped out of the Cavalry overalls he'd stripped from a dead Frenchman and stood naked. "They'd probably have us both on report."

"Or latrine digging for a week."

"No thanks." Sharpe took his sword and laid it by the improvised bed. "I can think of things I'd much rather do. Like this..."

Harper grunted softly as Sharpe mildly miscalculated where his body was. "What's that then, beat me up?"

"Not unless you don't keep still, no."

Harper stopped trying to make room and sighed as Sharpe spread himself down the length of his body, "Ah, so that's what you were trying to do."

Sharpe grunted as arms muscled like steel wrapped their way around him. "Ay. Thought it was obvious."

"I must be a bit slow today."

Sharpe considered what was pressing against his belly and smiled. "Not that slow."

"Well..." Sharpe slid off him, and Harper gasped as a hand skimmed down to his groin. "Jesus, I've been waiting for you, what d'you expect!"

The shadowy face was grinning, alight with more than amusement. "Perhaps I should make you wait more often."

With a sudden movement, Harper wrestled his captain to the floor, pinning his hands above his head. Both men were grinning, breath quickened by the nearness of what they had been waiting for.

"Pat..."

Harper swallowed, just finding the strength to avoid beginning a kiss he knew his captain wouldn't want. "Ready?"

Sharpe nodded, the banter and the amusement all gone. "Let me go then."

Harper released the fine, strong wrists and watched as the night-silvered body settled onto its front. It was always the same. A ritual by which they kept sane; kept the dark and the evil away. Harper no longer hoped for more. Or to be more honest, he no longer hoped very often.

He reached for the oil left ready by the wall and poured some into his hand. Sharpe's skin was smooth under his fingers, the parting to admit him, smoother still where he pushed inside. The soft sound of pleasure that even this could bring was enough to pump his blood faster. He slipped a second finger through the tightness, feeling as it gave, relaxed at his command. A third, and Sharpe was writhing under his touch. "Ready..." It was almost a question, almost a statement.

"Ay."

Harper knelt between the outstretched thighs, taking a moment to caress the curves that were offered to him. He felt Sharpe move against the touch, arch as he asked for more; the slight movement as carnal as any Harper had seen made by man or woman. He shivered, readying them both with skilled hands and then, with a sure, practised flex of strong muscles, slid home.

"Jesus!" Sharpe bit down hard on the cry, the sudden penetration shocking, unbearably exciting. He could feel the tightness of Harper's scrotum prickling against his buttocks, the weight of the big man heavy as he shifted, straightening his legs, supporting most of his weight on his arms. Harper pulled back very slightly, then slowly pushed deep again, then again, this time hard, almost brutal, making Sharpe claw at the floor as the pleasure shuddered through him. Feral, basic, as simple a coupling as was possible, yet the strength of affection between them took away any edge of darkness. This was pleasure, fought hard for and found.

A long pull back this time, very slow, making Sharpe's breath come in short erratic bursts as anticipation threaded his nerves with icicles of need. He was whispering incoherent sounds, if he was begging then only the night heard, then Harper slid home again, hard. It was as if shell exploded behind his eyes, the bright spear of pleasure turning him blind, deaf, incapable of any sentient thought but that of craving. This time the long withdrawal almost made him scream, until the waiting was done and Harper was there, again.

Sharpe was making a soft sound in the back of his throat, lost. Harper changed his position, pulling the supple body with him, making it kneel, reaching around to take the hot, weeping cock into his hand, gentling its velvet hardness as he would an animal. Then, taking pity, he circled its base with his big fingers and began to fuck in earnest, hard and fast as he knew his officer liked, on and on, until Sharpe arched and shook and the cock in his hand began to jerk, spitting jism into the straw. Sheathed deep, milked by tight contractions of pleasure, Harper could stand it no longer. Sweat dripping down his body he shuddered, head tossed back, the sinews of his throat stark with the effort it took not to announce his conquest to the world, roaring silently into the night as pleasure tore savagely through him, seeming to last forever, until his muscles turned to liquid and with a soft grunt he fell forward, taking Sharpe to lie flat under him.

Crushed by greater weight, Sharpe lay still, slightly dazed, completely pleasured. He licked his lips and winced as Harper carefully withdrew, taking a deep breath as the heavy body lifted away and settled at his side.

"Good?"

"Ay." Sharpe barely had the energy to speak. "Great." With an effort he slowly turned himself over and lay a hand on Harper's arm.

A grin flashed white in the shadows. "I'm feeling quite fine myself."

"Good, then come here and shut up!"

"Ay, sir!"

A growl. "And less cheek, sergeant, if you please."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

They both grinned, and Harper settled with his arm around Sharpe. They both intended to talk, to savour this delightful isolation, but instead they both drifted almost immediately into sleep, the rest they shared with each other the only sound sleep either of them knew.

PART ONE

Estramadura, Spain. 1813.

It was whispered that the village called Maura was haunted. Solitary and scorned, it was situated in a valley of squared-off fields where the few, ragged crops ran to seed in weed-infested furrows. It was a poor place with scarcely a house taller than one storey, with all the white-plaster walls gray and cracked with age. At the centre of the village could be seen a church, one that must once have been a fine monument to the steadfast faith of the villagers, though now its bell-tower was crumbling, the white stucco peeling away in swathes as, slowly, defeated by the burnishing Spanish sun, it was turning back to the ochre earth from which it came.

From a distance, Captain Richard Sharpe and Sergeant Patrick Harper looked at the village, then with a glance that needed no words rode the last few hundred yards across the dead fields. Close to the nearest house they found some trees, small gnarled things, but enough to tether the horses to. Without words they took up rifles, loaded and ready, and entered the pathetic ruin of tumbling-down houses that had once been a place of work and worship and laughter for a few hundred people. It was all now empty. No Spaniard would now willingly spend a night here; the ruins were too reminiscent of the terrible day the French had spent butchering its small population. They said the ghosts here spoke clearly to the living, and while the enemy still camped on Spanish land the living had no word of vengeance to give the ghosts rest. Maura was a place of the cursed, and now none but the damned ever wandered her streets.

Not that the two Riflemen had any choice.

As Sharpe paced through the ruins he stretched his senses, listening to the creak of heat-sodden wood, the whisper of animals scurrying away in fear behind rotting plaster and the uncanny silence that only a place destroyed by violence ever holds. All was quiet, except for the soft creak of leather as they walked, the sigh of cloth against cloth, not a sound was out of place. The village was empty of everything but ruin. If there were ghosts, he didn't hear them. His temperament refused to allow such things. He knew his companion was different. Patrick Harper could conjure spirits from the air, hear ghosts among the cannon fire. Sharpe knew without asking that he was hating this place.

They walked slowly the length of the only street worth gracing with that name, spread out, wary. Though there was no need, for they were alone, despite the fact that Harper had continually glanced from left to right, occasionally turned full circle as he walked, nobody else was alive, only the rats. He walked with his finger on the trigger of his already primed rifle; not that it would be any use here. There were no Frenchmen, they were all long gone, months gone; they had left nothing but unburied corpses, women defiled and children speared on their lances' fine-honed points.

Harper spat into the dust.

Roused from his dark thoughts, Sharpe looked briefly at his companion, then nodded. "Ay, it's not a good place."

"Damn right. Are you sure I can't be coming with you?"

Sharpe sighed, not even bothering to argue the issue again. Harper knew the answer anyway. Despite the horror that seemed to crawl up through the road and from every half-burned and abandoned building, this was the safest place to wait. "With any amount of luck you won't be here long. I'll be back in two days, three at the most."

"And if you're not?"

"Tell Hogan I failed, that the bastards wouldn't listen to me."

"And probably cut your throat to shut you up."

"Probably."

Harper spat again. "Hogan's a murdering bastard. Sir."

"Ay, but he also gives the orders."

"That he does." Harper sounded none too happy about the fact.

His attention diverted, Sharpe stopped in his tracks. The street they had walked so carefully along was hard-packed dirt, with wind-blown rubbish banked against the walls and all the debris of destruction scattered across it. In the ground at his feet, something glinted brightly, caught in the late autumn sunlight. He crouched down, slinging his rifle back over his shoulders, and with his finger prised it out of the earth, cleaning it roughly on the dark wool of his sleeve. It was a tiny gold ring, a child's ring, a simple twist of metal, battered and dented, but still somehow holding its original shape. He held it in his palm and hated the French with a simple ferocity.

"Poor thing."

Sharpe looked up at his sergeant, and grimly agreed. It was the small things like this that hurt, more than a hundred battles or a thousand dead men. He hoped the child had died easily.

"With the French looting everything and killing whenever they feel like it, how can any of the Spanish want to fight on their side?"

Sharpe slowly stood up and shook his head, fingers closing around the ring. "Reasons I can't fathom. Christ, these bloody bandits or guerrilleros or partisans or whatever they like to call themselves have set up their camp so close to here they must know what happened, how every person here was massacred in cold blood by those Crapaud bastards, yet they still fight against us."

"Somebody buried the bodies." They had passed what could only have been a communal grave as they approached the village. "And that certainly wasn't the French." The French scarcely ever bothered with their own dead let alone the Spanish.

"Hogan said that people from the countryside did it, that they tried to clean this place up, settle here again. They lasted a week."

"The ghosts drove them away."

And the poisoned well, and the bones the burial party had missed, picked clean by scavengers, that caught the eye like sun-bleached linen amongst the dust.

"Ay, and the rest of it." Richard Sharpe thought for a moment, his attention entirely on his friend, then his empty hand reached out and lightly touched Harper's sleeve, resting there for a fleet moment before dropping away. "You could go back. I'll make my own way home."

"You can't get rid of me that easily." He smiled widely. "Once I've told the ghosts I'm Irish I'll be fine as ninepence. Don't you worry yourself, you just go and sort out that mad bastard in the mountains. Though I still don't like any of it. Besides, I can't go too far, you might need me."

Sharpe nodded at that plain truth. "I'd better not take this." He held the child's ring lightly in his hand, then offered it to Harper. "It belongs here."

Their fingers met and in silence they said everything that was needed. Harper took the ring into his large hand. It was warm from his Captain's skin. "I'll be waiting. Off you go now."

Sharpe obeyed, turning on his heel to walk back to where he had tethered his horse, his mind already concerned with the guerrilleros, their mysterious leader and the simple objective of staying alive.

*

The summer, even for the Peninsular that comprised Spain and Portugal, had been hot and the autumn was proving a continuation of the same. As he rode, Sharpe cursed the sun that sat banked behind a tracery of thin, wispy clouds, burning through them with a humidity that made his uniform cling with sweat to his back and shoulders and the unfamiliar saddle to chafe his thighs.

Even after hours of riding he was only in the foothills, about half way to his goal, the landscape turning from scrub and dust and ancient olive groves to rocky inclines and trees whose leaves seemed burned to blackness in the vicious sunlight. Pulling on the slippery reins he made the horse stand, slapped its neck like he had seen cavalry officers do, and slid to the ground, thankful for even a moment to have the solidity of earth under his feet. Horses would never be his preffered mode of transport, but even he admitted they were essential when needing to get somewhere in a hurry.

It was still hours before he would be where he was heading; what Hogan had described as a half-ruined castle, high in these mountains. It had taken longer than he had wanted to get even this far, and the map Hogan had drawn left a lot to be desired. He'd backtracked more than once, deceived by lines that told of streams that were not in fact there and streams that were indisputably there but had somehow been missed off the map. In the end Sharpe had stuffed the greasy scrap of paper into his saddle-bags and ridden on, trusting to instinct and the remembered instructions from Hogan, which were a hundred time more useful than his sketch.

Narrowing his eyes he scanned the horizon. So far he hadn't felt the signs of hidden eyes watching and there had been no movement at all apart from the steady passage of his own horse. The group of Spaniards he was trying to make contact with controlled all this area, he knew that much. But that was just about all he knew. He didn't know how many of them were holed up in these hills, or how well they were armed, or why Hogan thought sending Sharpe to talk with them was better than sending an Exploring Officer, or indeed anyone who was fluent in Spanish. Sometimes Hogan's habit of keeping all the relevant information to himself was acutely irritating.

Though he hadn't been shot at yet, which was a mercy in itself. Hogan had a nasty habit of getting Sharpe into trouble, one he sincerely hoped wouldn't be elaborated on today.

Sharpe stretched, easing the muscles in his legs that were complaining about the unaccustomed usage of riding rather than marching. In the heat, he'd already unbuttoned his dark-green rifleman's jacket, and with a sigh that was half a groan, he slid it from his shoulders, cursing the lack of breeze to lift the crumpled cotton shirt from his skin, or dry the sweat that clung to the long, exposed line of his throat.

It was well past noon, yet the heat didn't seem to be easing one notch.

He took a swig of warm, stale water from his canteen, swallowing it down with a grimace, then hooked the worn leather flask back over the saddle.

In the bright heat he stood for a long moment, seeing nothing of the dry land or the baked earth at his feet, wondering if going on was the right thing, if in fact it wouldn't be better to stay here overnight, to wait for morning before bearding this lion in its den. It would be almost dark when he arrived. And night had unaccountable, mysterious effects on the way men thought. Death always seemed far closer, far more real in the long hours of the darkness. As if the shadows or the moon made it far easier to think of madness and death; made it easier to kill.

A cloud slipped across the sun and he shivered, before roughly cursing superstition.

He took a deep breath, then tied his jacket across the top of the saddle-bags, decision made. Not that there had really been any choice. He would go on. Gathering the reins into his lean, tanned fingers, he levered himself back onto the horse and began once more to head for the distance.

It was a few hours later when, skin prickling in warning, he felt the first watcher.

He'd been climbing steadily for an hour and knew his destination was close. The path had narrowed, turning into a dry track beaten into the barren hill-side. There were sick looking trees and sporadic scrub-land, nothing to give good cover, but there were so many folds in the land that he could have been surrounded by half a battalion and not known it. He did know they were there though, not how many, but they were there.

In the distance his eyes caught the flicker of a signal, a mirror used to catch the lowering sun and transmit a message across miles of country. With a tightening of his throat and a prickle of fresh sweat between his shoulder blades, he wondered what the message was. He hoped they would be polite enough at least to ask who he was before shooting him. All this venture was a gamble and had been so from the beginning, but one Hogan assured him was worth the risk.

Sharpe was suddenly not quite so sure.

When they came into sight and started flanking his horse, moving with him, he knew at least that he wasn't dead. Yet. They were four horsemen, mounted on the thick-coated, sure-footed horses the mountain people favoured. The men were all were armed, muskets clasped lightly, familiarly, as they eyed their captive.

For Sharpe had no doubts at all that captive described exactly what he now was.

They let him ride in silence the long, steep path that led right up to the gates of their stronghold. Ancient and impressive it dominated the countryside, stark in the golden light as the sun set closer and closer to the horizon. Though it was only from this near to the old walls that Sharpe could see the chunks of masonry that were missing, and realised that the place was little more that a grandiose, elaborate ruin. But one that was more then enough for the guerrilleros' purposes. Even falling-down the building would be easy enough to defend and throughout the walls were signs of building work, as if large parts of the fortification had been recently shored up. Automatically, Sharpe's mind assessed its vulnerability and he took little time in coming to the conclusion that he was glad he'd never have to lay siege to this particular fortress. It would be possible to break through the walls, but it would be a suicidal task. Hogan had been right, the bastard, the only way to win here was to talk them around, persuade them that the British were on their side and the only ones to fight were the French. Easier said than done though. Not for the first time, Sharpe cursed, and thought, with a certain despairing humour, that it was a shame Hogan hadn't come himself.

Look-outs had clearly announced their arrival for the great gates groaned open as they approached. Sharpe started to rein in, but the Spanish were suddenly very close, urging his horse forward with calls and cries, crowding her until she hastened forward without any choice.

From dying sunlight, to shadows as they passed under the walls, to sunlight again, each time it took Sharpe's eyes time to adjust, until he was almost blind. Hands were at his horse's bridle, tugging the reins from his fingers until he gave them up. Surrounded, no longer master of his own fate, he rode into the castle's large central courtyard as it opened up before him.

He blinked, and as his vision cleared he saw there were about a couple of hundred men about, ragged, sun-dark, vicious, all watching him. He felt their eyes devour him greedily in an eerie silence that magnified the sound of hooves against the battered and uneven flag-stones that paved the ground. He sensed nothing but animosity, tinged perhaps with a little amused curiousity as to why he was there; why a mouse had stepped so readily into the cat's domain. They certainly were not afraid of him, but there was no reason on earth why they should be. It wasn't as if he had a battalion at his back. Or even a company.

Something he was beginning rapidly to regret.

There was less sign of dilapidation here. The ramshackle outside turning into a haphazard but efficient camp. Though all the men's clothing was ragged and filthy, from what he could see their weapons were clean and workmanlike.

A spike of alarm shafted through him at the sound of the gates creaking closed. He half turned, but it was as if the closing gate had released a torrent of noise as everyone began to speak at once. Almost unnerved, Sharpe called out loudly, a parade-ground voice to reach over the clamouring voices. "My name is Richard Sharpe. I'm a Captain of the 95th Rifles in King George's army."

There was no reaction except sudden and absolute silence.

Sharpe took a deep breath to continue, but the sound died in his throat as from high on one of the balconies that circled the courtyard came the sound of a single pair of hands clapping very slowly. Trying with knees alone to control his suddenly uneasy horse, Sharpe looked up and saw a man, standing staring at him, bringing his hands together in a mockery of applause, the sound as derisive as the most taunting of words.

Sharpe addressed the figure in limited Spanish. "Donde esta el commandante aqui?"

The echoing sound stopped and the man leaned forward, resting his hands on the ornate stone wall that edged the balcony. He was in quite deep shadow and all Sharpe could make out was a tall, straight form dressed seemingly in unrelenting black that faded like camouflage into the shadows, leaving the sombre face, the long, light-coloured hair and the still hands as his only frame of reference.

"I'm here to offer support - Me han mandado aqui para hablar contigo, para ofrecer nuestro apoyo. El Major Hogan me envio." Sharpe licked his dry lips and wondered if he'd said the right words.

"What on earth could we have to talk about, my men kill English officers for target practise."

The voice was deep, laconic, amused and very English. Despite hearing the rumour from Hogan that a fellow-countryman commanded here, Sharpe was surprised into an exclamation in the same tongue. "You're not Spanish!"

"My, my, I see they sent an intelligent one - I must be rising in their estimation."

"Major Hogan did say something..."

"But you didn't believe him." The shadowy figure laughed, the sound dry and inescapably bitter. "Well, you should have done."

"I can see that. At least I don't have to try out my Spanish." Sharpe strained to see the expression on the other's face, unsure still if he was safe. "Will you talk with me? We're on the same side, after all."

"Are we?"

"We all hate the French. Surely your men want those bastards out of here as soon as possible."

"Ah, my men want a lot of things, including untold riches and an endless supply of women. Are you going to provide all that in exchange for our goodwill?"

"I doubt if Hogan could supply all that for Wellington himself."

"Maybe not." The distant face appeared to almost smile.

"Look," Sharpe was getting impatient now he knew that there was some hope that all this wasn't in vain. "Let me come up and talk, or come down, it's hard to say anything like this." He was also acutely conscious of the surrounding ring of his opponent's men, the hatred that swept up to him in almost tangible waves. He felt cold, the sun having finally dipped out of sight behind the rooftop. Before long it would be night. Torches were already being lit around the courtyard, though when Sharpe glanced at the sky it was only beginning to darken from pale sapphire to a cobalt streaked with gold and amber.

Above Sharpe, the figure of the Englishman, who by some strange chance had come to lead Spanish bandits, straightened. For a brief moment, Sharpe thought that he was going to move, make his way down into the courtyard, but in the end all he did was to sit sideways on the balcony wall, hands clasped loosely on his thigh. "I'm not sure there is anything else to say. I'm not sure what you could do for us to make up for the loss of killing you. Will you give us guns?"

"Maybe. I'd have to ask."

"I can tell you now what the answer would be - no. And they'd laugh as they said it. Though I'm surprised you didn't just lie - most of your kind would."

"About what?" Sharpe didn't dispute the kind the commander meant, though he would later, if the chance came. If it would help.

"Guns, anything. I've had messengers here before, did they tell you that?" Sharpe couldn't quite keep surprise from his face. "I thought not. I've been promised all manner of things, and never believed a word of it. Sometimes it helps to be English."

"Look, I could try and get guns, if you promise not to fight us, and to help us fight the French."

The man sounded almost sad, "No, I don't think I could promise that." He shook his head. "And you're getting close to telling me untruths, you really shouldn't do that."

"I'm telling the truth. We need you on our side."

"I know. But I don't need to be on yours." He yawned. "And I'm getting very bored. Goodbye Captain Sharpe."

"No! You haven't heard me out. To start with, tell me what should I call you?"

The man tilted his head to one side and considered. "You could call me Philip: not that you'll really need to call me anything at all. As I said - goodbye." He raised his voice and issued what sounded like a string of orders in fast, idiomatic dialect, and almost before he knew what was happening Sharpe had been pulled from his horse, held still by strong, bruising hands as his sword was quickly removed from his waist.

Surrounded by the clamour of unintelligible voices, breathless, filled with anger and acrid shame of the fear that rose up to swamp him as he was grabbed and pushed, Sharpe suddenly let loose a shout and fought. The battle was more then unequal. Alone and desperately outnumbered, there was little he could do to survive, but if he was going to die then it wouldn't be as a coward, it would be as a soldier.

Surprise only gave him a half-minute of advantage; he felt the heel of his hand connect with bone and his boot with flesh, almost smiling as the recipient of the blow cried out. Twisting away, regardless for his own skin, he kicked and butted and clawed, knowing the fine thread of hope survive in the confusion, almost believing he could escape if only he could reach the horse, ride through the crowd, breach the gates, outrun the bullets that would be sent to bring him down. He didn't feel the punches that knocked into him, didn't feel pain. He could see freedom, survival; taste it with the blood in his mouth. He would escape. Would...

It was the last moment of coherent thought he would have for a long time. A blow took him to his knees, senses reeling. Dazed, he watched them come to him, felt their hands lift him off the dirt and that was the end of precise awareness, for the world exploded in a welter of pain.

As night slowly leeched the blue from the sky, they played with him like a pack of rats with a wounded dog. Most of the men stood in a wide circle, to stamp and whistle and shout their approval, or otherwise, of their companions' means and methods. They took it in turns to worry at their prey, beating him one at a time, carefully, enjoying every blow, every drop of spilled blood, cheering if he cried out, laughing all the time; a laughter that would come to haunt his dreams through many a night.

He was their entertainment, and when he showed signs of distraction, they merely poured icy well-water over him, and on it went.

He still fought, bringing more than one man to his knees as they underestimated how worn down he was. Though he always paid, the price taken in pain and humiliation.

Once, in the midst of it all, Sharpe came to a moment of uncanny awareness; held between their filthy hands, waiting in resignation and weariness for the next round, he looked up to see the other Englishman watching him, saw his face clearly for the first time, the strong features limned with torch-light; austere, implacable. Time held still as they took the moment in silence between themselves; victim and victor.

In the flickering light, pushed to his knees on the filthy ground, Sharpe almost let himself hope, quite for what he wasn't sure. He strained to look up, to hold the other man's gaze. But hope died as the tall figure turned suddenly, violently away, leaving him alone with his tormenters; curiously bereft.

As it all began again, Sharpe closed his eyes, suddenly weary beyond any measure. There was no fight left and he let the pain take him, hardly feeling the blow that finally left him vomiting in the dust, or the booted feet that took away the last ragged vestiges of awareness.

*

The first thought to spin itself out of the fine webs of returning consciousness was amazement that he was alive. The second was to move and to regret the impulse violently. Sharpe groaned, biting back the sound as a hand touched him and, despite himself, he flinched.

"It's all right. I'm really not going to hurt you."

The velvet-rich, sardonic voice belonged to someone he knew, but his mind would tell no more than that one simple fact.

"Don't move."

The voice was wasting words. Despite confusion and no real sense of reality, Sharpe, after the first attempt at movement, was keeping quite still. There was pain, biting pain, if he as much as tried to move his head; less if he kept still. Wherever he was and whatever was happening, any lessening of degree was for the good.

Something cold touched the pain to the side of his forehead and he moved away, the impulse to escape translating to his weakened muscles as a slight turn of the head.

"Por Dios! I told you, keep still, I'm only cleaning a cut."

Who? Sharpe swallowed aridly and opened the one eye that appeared to still function. And couldn't quite believe what he saw.

"Surprised?"

Sharpe tried to agree, but his mouth was too dry.

"I told them not to kill you. You should be thankful that they always obey me."

He was. Though he wasn't sure what confused his thoughts most, that he lived or that the hand cleaning the mess of his face belonged to the renegade Englishman.

Philip.

The name brought back every minute recollection and Sharpe took a deep breath, regretting it instantly.

"Mmm - you've got some deep bruising in your belly, I'd take it easy for a bit if I were you."

Sharpe didn't need to be told. He waited until the darkness behind his eyes stopped flaming with a constellation of stars, then took another breath, one more cautious and careful and less likely to rip him apart.

"Why are you doing this?" He almost didn't recognise his own voice, but struggled on. "Why aren't I dead?"

"Un capricio."

Sharpe would have laughed if there had been energy or will left to do it. "Bloody hell, a whim?"

"And I thought you might be more use to me alive than dead."

Narrowing his eyes against the light from a lamp that stood on the floor, Sharpe fought the fog filling his head. He was lying on what appeared to be a bed in a stone-walled room. There was no-one else present but the two of them. Filtering through the open casement came the sound of plaintive singing accompanied by some sort of guitar.

"Would you like some water?"

"Ay, more than anything."

"More than your freedom?" The tone was curious, untinged with malice, though shadowed by very slight amusement.

Sharpe looked his captor in the eye. "No. But I don't suppose that's on offer."

The look held, then something stirring in the depths of the dark eyes made Sharpe glance away.

Philip shrugged, the movement a slight shifting of his wide shoulders. "How true. But water is, come on, sit up."

A strong arm was slipped around his shoulders and helped him to sit up against the pillows. Sharpe was sweating, when it was over.

The Englishman was scrutinising him.

"I'm all right."

"I'm sure."

For some reason the laconic agreement made Sharpe flinch.

"Drink this."

Sharpe reached for the cup but in the end a large, steady hand had to help him. After a few mouthfuls he fell back, unconcerned as he was once again laid flat, gasping for breath. Water had trickled from his mouth to his chest and for the first time he realised that under the thin sheet he was naked.

"Now keep still." The cold cloth returned to clean his face. Sharpe obeyed, slight nausea holding him as much as the order. He concentrated on pushing away the shadows that were threatening to blank out the room. And succeeded, though he was filmed in sweat by the time the bloody cloth was thrown into a bowl of equally fouled water.

"There, you'll do."

"I suppose you want me to say thank you." Shivering, suddenly very cold, Sharpe was dimly aware of disgust at the weakness in his own voice. "But if it were you, lying here, would you?"

Philip shook his head, "Probably not." Then he smiled. "Go to sleep."

That order Sharpe had no problem obeying, aware at the last moment of a warm blanket being tossed over his bed.

*****

When he awoke again, daylight was flooding the room. Somehow he got both feet on the floor and was upright, managing the few paces to the unglazed window, holding on tight to the sill, keeping there by sheer determination.

The room overlooked the central courtyard, though unlike those on the lower levels it had no balcony. Sharpe looked down, judged the distance and knew this was not the way out. He was high up, in the second floor of the old building, as far up as was probably habitable, judging from the state of the roof opposite. In the wide central area people went about their tasks. There were men and women, even a handful of children chasing each other through a colonnade. Some sort of climbing plant made its delicate way up the stone wall, but it didn't reach the window Sharpe stared out of, and even if it had he doubted it would have taken his weight.

Turning away from the cheerless view he went and tried the door. Locked. Though that came as no surprise. There was no surprise either in the fact that a guard was posted there, Sharpe could hear the sound of his boots on stone as he turned.

One arm tight around his belly, feeling as bent as an old man, Sharpe made his way around the room. Apart from the bed with its blood and grime soiled sheets, pitcher of water and an ancient bucket, there was nothing; just crumbling stone and flaking lime-wash, dust, spiders-webs old enough to fall rotting from the corners and the bright sunlight. Nothing except a pair of thin cotton breeches that he awkwardly and painfully pulled on over his nakedness.

He sat down on the bed feeling slightly better to be covered. And the door opened.

The man called Philip walked into the room and said something in fluid Spanish to a guard outside, then closed the door.

"You look better."

"Thanks. I feel bloody marvellous." Sharpe glared at the tall figure of his captor, daring disagreement. He straightened, be-damned to the pain in his gut. "Though I'd feel better in my uniform."

"I believe your trousers are around somewhere, but your jacket is no longer here."

"Where is it?" asked Sharpe in alarm. The jacket was more than a comfortable old item of clothing, it was his luck; the battered green fabric a charm against all ills.

"You'll get it back." There was amusement in the dark voice, though its owner seemed hardly to be paying attention to anything but the moment, his long, sombre face, with its deep-set eyes and imperious nose, intent on his prisoner.

Sharpe shifted under the direct scrutiny, uncomfortably aware of how battered he was. The feeling distracted him entirely from the matter of his jacket.

"Mmm, that eye's already healing well." A large hand reached out to take Sharpe's chin.

"I told you, I'm just fine." He batted the hand away, suddenly distinctly wary of contact. "What are you, some sort of sawbones?"

"I am many things, I've learnt to be through necessity." Philip gave the same, slight shrug of indifference and walked slowly over to the window. He held himself with ease, moving with a controlled fluidity unusual in such a big-boned man. Sharpe watched him warily.

"Are you going to let me go?"

The man at the window turned and his face was shadowed. "That depends."

"On what."

"On your General Wellington."

"On him?" Sharpe gave a short, unimpressed snort of laughter. "I'll be here till doomsday then, if it's ransom you're after."

"Not as such." The strange bandit leaned back, resting his weight on his elbows. He was dressed in riding clothes, from the tall boots to the fitted coat all black, all almost clerical in the severity of cut and lack of ostentation. Only his shirt and cravat were white and in the sunlight they shone like a band of quicksilver around his neck. "I'm promising him what he wants - along with you - in exchange for a few guns."

"He'll laugh in your face." Sharpe thought for a moment. "And who've you sent, anyway?"

"Your man, the one you left at Maura, a Sergeant Harper I believe."

Sharpe spoke with quick concern clear in his voice. "Is he all right?"

"If you mean did we hurt him, then the answer is no. Though I had to bring him here and show him you to prove that you were still alive. He didn't like it much but he saw sense in the end. He took your jacket. Seemed to think it was important. Shame you missed him really - he's only just left."

"Are you sure he was all right?"

"Oh, I'm positive, I've given orders that he's to be seen back almost to your lines. And he understood quite clearly that I meant what I said."

"That you'd kill me if you didn't get the guns?"

"Yes."

Sharpe ran a hand through his matted hair and winced, as much at the impossibility of Wellington agreeing to such demands as the pain he'd unwittingly inflicted on himself. "Is that why you didn't let them kill me?"

"Part of it."

Sharpe ignored the ambiguous comment. "I'd be happier if you'd stopped your men from using me for their sport as well."

"It did them good."

Sharpe blinked, then shook his head, not sure if he was capable of laughing. He answered dryly, "Glad I could be of service."

"How is it?"

"I feel as if I'd been well beaten. Strange, wouldn't you say?"

"I did tell them not to kill you."

"I wish I'd known it at the time."

The dark eyes were suddenly sharply curious. "Would that have made it any easier?"

"Damn right it would."

"So you fear death."

"Any man in his right mind does. Don't you?"

Philip half turned, idly fingering a jagged crack in the stone wall. "No, I don't think I do."

Sharpe gave a short, explosive laugh. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I'm not sure I expect you to believe anything." He turned with studied grace and took the few steps to stand in front of where Sharpe sat. He stared down and all at once there was no moisture in Sharpe's mouth. The captive straightened slightly but couldn't for all the world have looked away as the even voice spoke. "But I do not fear anything."

Sharpe tried the laugh again, but it came out cracked with disbelief. "Everybody fears something."

"I do not believe I am everybody."

"Who are you?" Sharpe could see freckles dusting under the pale tan of the severe face. He could see deep into eyes the exact colour of cinnamon. There were aristocratic bones, smooth skin lined deeply around the eyes. He didn't think they were lines made by laughter.

The man canted his head and a lock of hair fell towards one eye. His lips twisted, whether in bitterness or amusement it was impossible to tell. "I am James Philip Glebe Carlyle, fourth Lord Ashcombe. Though in truth I don't use the title much."

Sharpe had to close his jaw on the amazement before he could speak. "And you're here, leading that murderous bunch out there against us!"

"Patriotism never was my strong point."

"But you're killing your own people!" With an effort Sharpe stood up, bringing his uncomprehending anger closer to its object.

"People who have done nothing for me."

"What've my soldiers done to hurt you, you over-privileged bastard? Nothing." He had to look slightly up to meet the sardonic gaze.

"They are English, that's enough."

Without thinking, Sharpe lashed out with a closed fist. But he was, despite the anger, slow. The blow fell on thin air and pain exploded in his side, making him cry out as he fell twisting to the floor.

Arms cradling his ribs, darkness flashing at the edges of his vision he felt himself lifted by arms that seemed to make nothing of his weight, and laid on the bed. Firm hands made him straighten.

"Keep still, I'm trying to see what the damage is."

"Jesus..."

The long fingers must be trying to burrow through his skin. He cursed and tried to hit out, but was held still by surprising strength.

"Stop fighting, damn you!"

Sharpe opened his eyes and held still, though he could hear the harshness of his own breathing loud in the quiet room.

"That's better." The hands released his arms and went back to the wide swathe of bruising that had blossomed darkly on the pale skin. They were gentle, feeling across bone and muscle, testing each rib that moved slightly as Sharpe fought to breath shallowly despite breathlessness. After a moment he nodded. "Nothing broken." He stood straight, staring down with an unreadable expression on his face. "You shouldn't have made me hit you."

"Too right, I shouldn't." Sharpe was very pale, a faint tinge of green around his eyes. There was sweat dripping down his cheek, darkening his hair. He was very wary.

"Honours even?"

"Ay." In was muttered ungraciously but it was an assent.

Carlyle's eyes narrowed as he took in the battered state of the supine man. Sharpe held still, but the long look made him uncomfortable, totally aware of his state of undress, of the threadbare fabric of the breeches he wore.

"How did you come by the scars on your back?"

"None of your bloody business."

The same shrug repeated itself. "As you will." And without another word Carlyle turned on his heel, coat-tails billowing around him. He knocked to be let out, pausing only once before leaving. He almost said something, but in the end all his mouth did was twist derisively, though of the two of them who the derision was aimed at was impossible to tell.

****


	2. The plot thickens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh, so much history...

Sharpe was left alone for the rest of the day. The hours dragged and he spent the time alternately worrying about Harper, or at least what the mad Irishman would try when Wellington told him that there were no muskets, and planning how to escape. True, he slept a lot of the time, lying in the thin-matressed bed, wrapped in the rough, grey wool blankets for warmth; for despite the heat outside, the large, stone-walled room felt cold to his body. Fever-dreams danced through what sleep he found and sat in his mind like ghosts when he was wakeful. He knew he was far from well.

The day still seemed to take forever to get to nightfall. Eventually the strange oblong of blue sky that he could see from his prison turned pale, scarred with orange and dull red, changed and finally darkened. For an hour he leaned wearily out of the casement, watching. Just watching. Watching the darkness brighten as lamps were lit, calculating distances, counting men. Planning. For there had to be a way out and night seemed the best time to try.

Not that for the life of him he could see how.

The window was too high to jump from, and there were no holds in the wall that anything other than a fly could have climbed down. The door was firmly locked. Short of kicking the door down and fighting to freedom there was no way and, as he had trouble standing up at anything other than a snail's pace, such a feat seemed unlikely.

With a sound of frustration, Sharpe turned from the window and sat himself down on the edge of the bed. Harper walked through his thoughts until a shiver skidded across his skin. Big, strong, brave Harper. The best friend a man could have. They would have died for each other, had proved that countless times. Died and worse. For any soldier knew that a quick bullet to eternity was the easiest way to go.

No, Harper had saved Sharpe's life, cleaned his wounds, listened, been there. Been the best lover Sharpe had ever known. He had taught Sharpe many lessons, not least of which that it was possible to have tenderness between two men, that it didn't have to be fast and brutal, a battle to inflict pain along with release.

In the growing shadows, Sharpe smiled at the thought, for Harper could in fact be brutal when needed. And he always seemed to know exactly what was needed and when. Though now he was as near married as made no difference, perhaps all that would change. Not that they had ever managed anything apart from when alone. It was too risky showing exactly what they had for each other when too close to camp. Neither of them fancied being hung. Instead they'd taken advantage of the relative freedom Hogan allowed them and found moments of companionship in the hills, trusting in their senses to know where was safe and where wasn't.

On cold nights it was better than sleeping alone. On warm ones too.

He hoped Harper wouldn't be stupid enough to try anything by way of a rescue. And, for some reason he wasn't quite sure of, he hoped that Harper and the English lord never had further occasion to meet.

Philip, Lord Ashcombe. Or so he claimed. Not that there was any reason to doubt it, and the man had all the manner that only being brought up to consider the rest of the world beneath you could endow. But what in heaven's name was he doing here?

Sharpe didn't have to answer that thought. The key turned loudly in the lock and as the door swung back, light from a lamp flooded the room. Temporarily blinded, Sharpe held a hand to his eyes and peered up warily, expecting to see Carlyle; half wanting, half afraid.

But it turned out to be only two guards, one with a rifle and the other with a tray of food. They said nothing, not even when Sharpe spoke to them, just put the tray down and left without so much as acknowledging the presence of the prisoner. The door was locked firmly in their wake.

And they took the lamp with them.

In sudden darkness Sharpe climbed to his feet and stumbling across the floor banged loudly on the door, shouting. It did no good at all, he might as well have been shouting at the walls for they didn't re-open the door.

After a moment, Sharpe cautiously made his way back to the bed. There, in the gloom he cursed, sitting in angry silence until with a jolt he realised that it wasn't as dark as he'd first thought. The moon must have risen, for there was just enough light crawling into the chamber for him to make out more than just solid shapes. Going over to the window he peered up at the sky. There were stars, and the night was a silvered darkness that meant the moon was indeed making her way across the skies, not that he could see her yet. It was cooler and he shivered slightly, the chill air raising goose-bumps on his naked skin.

It was a fine night. A night full of the scent of the flowering vine that climbed over the old stones, of the earthier smells of cooking, of the heat-baked stones themselves. He should have been back behind the safety of the English lines, watching his riflemen laughing at some joke of Harris', listening to Hagman sing some filthy song, wondering what God-awful task Hogan would dream up for them next.

Instead he was a prisoner. With no Harper to keep him company. No Harper to banish the ghosts with the sure touch of his hands.

Without asking the image came to his mind of Carlyle: Carlyle lying where Harper was so at home. He shook his head, wanting to deny the prickling awareness that there was between them. To deny the attraction.

For without doubt attraction it was.

Cursing under his breath, knowing himself for a fool, Sharpe pushed the thought aside and turning, went to fill the simpler hunger that suddenly rumbled in his belly.

*****

"Yes, sir. I know that, sir." Harper stood at attention, his attitude all regimental obedience, his voice entirely obstinate. "But they'll kill him."

"And you say Captain Sharpe was alive when you last saw him?" Seated behind his campaign desk, a creased map of the Peninsular spread before him, Wellington was clearly trying not to appear as if he wished the opposite were true.

"Yes, sir. They'd beaten the daylights out of him, but he was breathing." Just. And anything might have happened to him since. By self-control alone, Harper held still, quelling the need to be off and at the Spanish bastards.

"I see." Wellington sighed. "And this person, this...Englishman you say?"

"Yes, sir. He was that." Harper looked straight ahead, blithely ignoring the Peer's beady-eyed look.

"Indeed. Well, this Englishman wants three hundred muskets in exchange for our one captain."

"That's the way of it, sir."

"Sergeant, did you see how many men he had?" This from Hogan who lounged at his ease on a corner of the desk, his square, farmer's hands idly toying with a gold Spanish coin.

Harper resigned himself to a third repetition of the events. "No, sir. About ten men ambushed me at the village and the first thing they did was wrap a rag about my eyes so I couldn't see anything at all. All I saw was the room where they kept the captain." He considered. "But the fortress was big, and it didn't sound empty, if you know what I mean, sir. On the way back I was escorted as far as Molinos and came on the rest of the way alone." Alone and driven by a dreadful sense of urgency. An urgency he couldn't seem to impart to his superiors. "They told me what they wanted, they showed me he was still alive, and that was that." He took a deep breath. "So, when can I be starting out with the muskets, sir?"

At the same time as Wellington made a neutral noise in his throat, Hogan said, "Well, it's not as if we've got guns to give away."

"But he'll kill him! Sir...?"

"Maybe." Wellington raised an eyebrow aimed at Hogan. "Or maybe he's just trying a bluff."

"He isn't. I can promise you that, sir." It was Harper who answered, though when he looked at Hogan he read acknowledgment of that truth there, though how Hogan should know the Englishman so well was another mystery. But Harper remembered the dim room where Sharpe lay, his battered body covered by a thin blanket. On being released from the blindfold, Harper had been convinced the captain was dead. It hadn't been the best time of his life. Especially when one of the guards had proved a point by hitting the unconscious figure. Not nice at all. Or reassuring. Harper closed his eyes briefly, then opened them direct into Wellington's. "Sir, I really don't think he makes empty promises. He seemed deadly serious to me."

"And deadly to Sharpe. Unless we do something." Hogan flipped the coin from one hand to the other, as if debating with himself. He cautiously eyed his commander. "I suppose we might try offering a smaller quantity of arms, sir. As long as he promises not to use them on us, of course." He almost smiled. "And you'd go back and do a spot of negotiating, wouldn't you, Harper?"

"Whenever you want, sir."

Wellington frowned at his intelligence officer. "Hogan, this entire affair has been a bloody awful mess."

"I was thinking just that myself, sir."

"But I suppose we can't afford to loose that protege of yours?"

"And there I was thinking he was yours, sir. It was you raised him up from the ranks."

Wellington could almost be heard to grind his teeth.

"A wise move, considering how useful he's been since." Hogan smiled benignly into the silence.

"Oh, all right." Wellington sat back with a gusting sigh. "Try and get away with parting with as little as possible."

"Of course, sir. We wouldn't dream of doing anything else, would we sergeant?"

"Never, sir." Slightly out of his depth, Harper none the less knew when to agree.

"Well, off you go. Sort it out and let me know when Sharpe's back. He'll owe me more than gratitude, by Jove."

The two Irishmen exchanged a glance, but said nothing, leaving the Peer to his plans.

*****

The next morning Sharpe was woken by the arrival of the same taciturn guards. They took away the remains of his dinner tray and left behind a jug of water and a plate of what turned out to be fresh baked rolls: a simplicity very welcome after the previous night's plate of cold, garlic-laden mutton stew. Sharpe had forced a few spoonfuls of the greasy mess down, then given in, pushing the rest to one side as his stomach complained noisily about what he had eaten.

His sleep had been even less easy than the meal. Unable to rest properly he had dozed, shivering with cold while his bones protested and his muscles ached. Once, falling into a deeper sleep, he had dreamed a catalogue of nightmares, a collection of pain that had him sitting up fast, cold sweat dripping down his heaving chest. For a long moment he'd thought the scream that echoed in his mind might have been real, but no one came to the door and with a ragged sigh he'd lain back, relieved that the sound that had torn the obscene dream apart had not in fact left his throat.

That had been close to dawn. For the rest of the night he'd watched the lightening shadows, listening for the first stirring of the birds, the first sounds of the women rising to make breakfast. Only then had he slept, this time deeply and well, though for not nearly long enough.

Sitting up against the wall he munched his way through the bread, the blankets loosely wrapped over his legs. For the first time since the beating he felt warm. More than that he felt the beginnings of health restoring itself; the abuse his body had taken finally beginning to fade.

It was about time too.

Sharpe ran a hand down his body, wincing occasionally as fingers probed too deeply or touched too soon. But it was all greatly improved. Maybe even improved enough to permit an escape. He drank some water and considered the possibility of climbing down the wall and then somehow getting out of the gates. Pushing the blankets back he walked over to the window and peered down the sheer two-storey drop to the ground. His belly cramped at the very thought and he held it comfortingly. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea after all.

It did seem as if the only hope lay in Wellington suddenly proving he was human and ransoming one of his officers with guns. Money or an exchange of prisoners wouldn't have been a problem, but rifles...

Sharpe decided he didn't want to think about it.

Instead, he turned about and leaning on the wall surveyed his room. The four walls held little chance of entertainment. Low-ceilinged, large enough to billet near to ten men, it was a comfortable sort of prison. Better than many Sharpe had experienced. It still had at least one thing in common with the vilest dungeon; it was very boring.

Accustomed to be up and out and doing, Sharpe found being locked up very hard. But there were no options left to him, so for the rest of that day he alternately paced the dusty floor, gazed out of the window with the fine lines of a frown creasing his brow or lay on the bed disconsolately counting the cracks that veined like dusty ore across the plastered ceiling.

Throughout the day the courtyard had been a hive of activity. Carlyle's men had unpacked a mule-convoy of supplies which included a large amount of wine-casks, the arrival of which had sent cheers echoing through the building's old stones. More and more men seemed to arrive as the day progressed until Sharpe began to wonder if Carlyle was heading not just a band of cut-throats but a small army.

Only once had Sharpe seen the person his eyes were unconsciously searching for. Early in the day, long before the arrival of the pack-mules, he'd been staring blindly from his eerie, gauging the distance to freedom when the tall, unmistakeable figure had emerged from a door at the end of the right-hand colonnade. Without haste or awareness Carlyle had walked to the standing pump at the side of the square and stripping off coat, cravat and shirt, had soused himself under what could only have been ice-cold water.

But what had caught Sharpe's attention, making him catch his breath in a moment of shock was when Carlyle had straightened, turning away to towel the water off his face and chest. The long, broad back was scarred with the marks of a beating; silver weals in regimented order running down the line of ribs and disappearing beneath the black breeches.

Sharpe had closed his eyes and unconsciously his hand was at his own back, feeling, remembering. Against his reaching fingers the skin was a maze of raised lines that he knew had faded to silver and white. He'd seen the backs of enough flogged men to know exactly what a sight his own flesh must be, how starkly haphazard the scarring. The marks on Carlyle's back were very different; obscene in the calculated way the whip must have been applied.

In a way it at least explained Carlyle's strange interest in his captive's back.

Sharpe let his hand fall to his side, his eyes strangely distant, their usual dull-green leached to grey, as far below the other Englishman shrugged back into his shirt.

His own beating had been both painful and humiliating. Years ago, when he was still an ordinary soldier, the flogging had been given on the orders of two men who hated him, men who had trumped up charges and had him punished for a crime he hadn't committed. And even though it had been years ago he still woke on occasions with the searing pain echoing through his nerves, and his mouth stretched wide, screaming.

With a shiver that recalled him to the present, he had stepped away from the sunlight and the memories, returning to lie on the bed, his mind carefully clear of anything at all.

The day did eventually end. But instead of the routine of food and then bed of the previous evening, the fortress seemed, with the onset of dusk, to come alive.

In the wide courtyard were gathered what must have been all Carlyle's men. The wide area was brightly lit, a bonfire in the centre shedding further light as well as serving as a means for spit-roasting a couple of pigs. The wine-casks from the earlier consignment had been broached and the noise from the men along with their few women seemed to Sharpe as though there must be a thousand of them rather than just the hundred or so he knew were there. It was clearly going to be a long night.

As the moon rose and the night deepened the noise only grew louder: laughter and shouting calls in the local dialect reaching into the sky. Staring down at them, Sharpe longed bitterly for freedom. His own men enjoyed themselves in much the same way. He should have been in camp with them, not here.

He leant his weight on both hands, feeling the rough stone cold under his palms. The scene below him was a vision, of hell or heaven would depend only on the philosophy of the viewer. To Sharpe, despite the brightly flaming torches and the dark, blood-red embers of the fire, it was certainly nowhere near hell.

Some of the bandits stood against the walls, but most sat in groups, marking a wide circle around the fire, talking, eating. One man was mending some item of clothing, another carved at a piece of bone. The women served the food and flirted; in their home-dyed flounces they were like bright moths flitting amongst the darker, ragged clothes of the men. By the time the spitted pigs had been carved down to bone most of the women had disappeared, paired up; the promise in their dark eyes taking loneliness away for another night.

Sharpe laughed to himself at the hunger the realisation inspired, but it was only fleeting, and the succulent smell of the roasting pork was far harder to bear than the fleeting need to bed any of these whores, pox-ridden as they undoubtedly were.

His stomach rumbled loudly. He growled at it to be quiet; it didn't seem likely that any of the men would remember to feed the prisoner, they were having far too good a time to climb all the way up here for so little reason. Of course it wasn't impossible that some of them would remember the captive and want more of the entertainment that he had offered the first night. From where he stood, Sharpe could recognise some of the men who had taken such pains in beating him. There was one in particular whose fingers had left their mark clearly on his body and who had enjoyed it all with obscene delight. All in all, Sharpe decided he was quite happy to go hungry.

Suddenly, the shouting ceased, and in the disconcertingly loud silence came the pooling sound of a single guitar, the sweet, true, plaintive notes sending a shiver through the fine hairs across Sharpe's body. The music twisted and turned, weaving a pattern out of the darkness until it was joined by another guitar and then another.

Sharpe watched them, a disparate trio of musicians, each curled intently over their instrument, crimson and ochre light from the fire catching on the flash of quick fingers as they played, on their faces, young and old. From one of the groups of listening men, a gypsy-dark figure stood and began to sing, the sound unearthly, a distillation of sorrow and loss that caught itself in Sharpe's gut and pulled there as if hooked into his flesh.

He shivered, totally spellbound by the arrow-sound that ululated through the night air.

Abruptly, just as suddenly as the singing had commenced, it ended. There was a long suspended moment of silence then the arena of men all began to clap and whistle their appreciation. The man who had sung bowed, then sat down and the music began again.

It went on for a long time. Some sang alone, others to the accompaniment of the guitars or their own percussive clapping. The music ran like a thread through it all, loud or soft, strong or soft, beating out a feral time for when two of the men danced. Hardly shifting from where he stood, Sharpe watched and listened, though none of it quite compared to the singularity of that first singer.

Hours later many of the men were very drunk, some fought in a desultory way, others curled and slept where they found the room. Sharpe had finally abandoned his post and lain down on the bed, only to be dragged back again when the sounds changed, his curiosity too sharp and the noise too much to let him sleep. Down in the courtyard the guitars were still loud, but the tempo had changed. Now it was more intense, deepened by the sound of a hundred hands beating the rhythm out into the darkness. The faces were all intent, the scene somehow no longer light-hearted.

Sharpe wanted a drink. He watched the flasks and skins of wine being handed around and licked his lips. About to turn and hunt out the water that would have to do he stopped, his eyes drawn back to the courtyard as if a tether was being reeled in. There, from the shadows where he had stood unseen, Carlyle was walking through the clusters of his men to stand in the circle of light, raising his hands for silence.

But instead of speaking, a single guitar began to pick out a meandering melody, its voice gradually answered by the other two instruments. The sound was sadness distilled. From his eyrie Sharpe watched and felt the fine hairs on his arms lift in response as the music crystallised its pain to the sky.

All the while the still figure of Carlyle held the focus of every eye. Straight and arrogant he turned once, gesturing to the same man who had all those hours ago started the singing. Immediately his voice was raised to join the suddenly insistent, primitive rhythm of the instruments.

And then Carlyle moved.

It was like nothing Sharpe had ever seen. The tall, lithe figure twisted slowly in the fire-light, raised its hands up to heaven and began.

The dance was entirely male. With curve of spine and imperious hands that wove mystery from the shadows it spoke of pride and longing, of death and pain. The dancer hardly moved from the one space: turning on his heel; beating the stones with his booted heels; shirt unbuttoned, folds flashing white and dark as he twisted; the flat planes of belly and chest fleeting in movement, pale even against the bleached cotton of his shirt. With every weaving turn of the blade of movement he conjured magic, a coruscating spell that wiped out everything but awareness of himself and the muscle and sinew, bone and flesh of his body. Faster it went, sweat now clinging the fabric of his clothes to his skin, long hair unbound, damply lining his face.

Scarcely breathing, suspended a universe away from reality, Sharpe watched. Time, self, sanity, all woven into the music by the dancer who held it all in the taut line of his body.

Then, in a pool of silence it was over. All the energy was curbed, the violence contained, and Carlyle was standing quite still. Suddenly, he turned and looked up. Deaf to the cheers that were suddenly engulfing the night, to the sound of feet stamping the ground, Sharpe stared down and met the dark hooded eyes. He backed away, breaking the contact, a dark flush staining his skin.

Almost stumbling to the bed he sat down, curving his fingers into his hair. It was a long time before he moved.

There was nothing but silence floating in the window when Sharpe finally stirred. He rose and, with a sigh, crossed to the window and stared out into the darkness.

He was standing there when the key turned in the lock, the sound as shocking as a rifle shot. Unsure of why he was doing so, Sharpe backed away into the far corner of the room.

It was Carlyle. He stood in the doorway, lamp in one hand, bottle of wine in the other. After a moment he stepped through and one of the guards locked the door behind him.

"Hello. I thought you might be thirsty."

Sharpe stayed where he was.

A smile made its way across the sardonic features then vanished. He put the lamp down on the floor and leant back against the door, tilting his head to look down his nose at his captive. "Was I wrong?"

"No."

"I thought as much." He didn't move away from the door. When he spoke, his voice was rich and dark as midnight. "I saw you watching. Did you enjoy the spectacle?"

"Your dancing?"

"What else." He gave a small shrug and offered no modesty.

Sharpe shook his head with a quick negative. "Where did you learn?"

"Here. The Spanish love to make music, they love to dance." He shrugged his shoulders against the wood.

"And they don't bother with the minuet or the polonaise?"

"Oh, I expect in Madrid they do, but not here." Carlyle pushed himself away from the door. "They make good wine however. Here." He held out the bottle. "Drink. This isn't wine though, and I've had plenty."

Sharpe knew that. Carlyle was more relaxed, looser than he'd been since they'd met. Not that he was anywhere near drunk, and the hand that held out the bottle was steady, fingers tanned a pale gold by the sun easy around the dark green glass. Sharpe hesitated, then took a step forward, reaching out. Carlyle's fingers brushed against his as the bottle was handed over, the warmth of the other man's skin flaring against his own, more chilled, hand. He dared a quick look into unreadable eyes. "Thank you."

"A pleasure." Carlyle performed an elaborate bow.

Sharpe nodded awkwardly, then took a long drink from the bottle. It was brandy. Instantly warmth spread throughout his limbs, the alcohol immediately telling. He took a deep breath and wiped the back of an arm across his mouth. When he spoke his voice was slightly hoarse. "That's good stuff."

"I told you." Carlyle waved a magnanimous hand. "Drink what you want." And he turned away, only to settle himself in a casual sprawl across Sharpe's bed, his shoulders propped against the wall. He looked around the room, taking in the damp-peeled walls and the dust and dirt that banked the skirting. About to say something, he stopped. Then he shrugged again. "Did you enjoy the celebratory meal."

"What were you celebrating?" Sharpe didn't bother to mention that he hadn't in fact enjoyed any of the meal, celebratory or not. It didn't somehow seem worth the while.

"Another resounding victory against the French." Carlyle slowly smiled his cat's smile. "And we're incidentally a box of gold richer."

"The French pay-chest?"

"Indeed." The sigh accompanying the words was of total satisfaction in a job well done.

"Better than ours." Sharpe said sourly.

"You mean the English."

"I stand corrected." It was Sharpe's turn to bow, though his was the merest sketch. "But for all that you're still English." Sharpe stood at the end of the bed and looked down, a slight smile curving the edges of his mouth. "As English as I am." Carlyle hadn't put on a jacket, the rise and fall of his chest was clearly visible beneath the thin shirt, as were the darker aureole of his nipples, their shading drawing Sharpe's gaze.

"I'm as English as I want to be. Which is not at all."

Sharpe cleared his throat. "Is that something to do with the marks on your back?"

In silence Carlyle sat forward, his face a mask, every muscle set. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he relaxed back, hooded eyes deceptively lazy. "So, you spent more time today watching out of your window."

"There wasn't much else to do."

"I suppose not." Carlyle toyed with a corner of the blanket, then he met the enquiring eyes. "It was part of it."

"Whoever did it was a right vicious bastard."

"That, was my dear and much esteemed father." Bitterness dripped from the words.

"Your father!"

"Mmm. A parental cure for what he saw as a rotten son."

"Bloody hell! I've seen kids thrashed but never like that."

"I was seventeen. He had the footmen tie me to the end of his bed and then he beat me with a hunting whip until I passed out. He probably thought - wished - I was dead. I've never set eyes on him since. As soon as I was able I left. I only wish I'd had the strength to kill the old bastard." Carlyle returned from his own vision of hell. "Or at least given him back a bit of his own medicine."

"Did you deserve it?"

"Did you deserve the beating that scarred your back?"

"No." Sharpe shook his head. Awkwardly aware of the bottle in his hands, he took a long drink then set it down on the floor. "But some soldiers do. It's different, it's law. Not like a father doing something like that to his own flesh and blood." He shivered.

"Tell me honestly, was it bad?"

Sharpe met the dark gaze and saw his own secrets there. "Ay. Worse than I could ever have dreamed." He couldn't look any more, couldn't let the other man see. Yet still he spoke. "I had to watch a friend flogged not long ago. I sat with him all night and tried to tell him what to expect, because I'd always thought that knowing would have helped, but I couldn't get the words right."

"Words weren't created to describe it."

Sharpe shivered, rubbing his free hand over his other arm, then sat himself on the end of the bed. "No. And I try not to think about it much either."

"It's a shame whoever did it ruined your back."

Sharpe gave a breathy, half-amused laugh, astonishment letting surprising vulnerability fleetingly pass over his face. "I've got too many scars for that to worry me."

The laugh broke as Carlyle reached forward and ran a slow finger down the flawed skin.

Sharpe didn't move. Torn between wanting more and needing less he stayed where he was, and incoherently prayed that Carlyle wanted nothing more than a strange exchange of battle-honours. He stared at the wall and tried not to shiver as sure fingers explored the apparently so fascinating marks. And failed.

"Are you cold?"

Sharpe gave a wry laugh. "Not as you'd notice."

"Ah."

Turning, Sharpe faced the other man, seeing the strong boned face close-to for the first time, seeing the faint lines that hemmed the fine, almond eyes, the strong, arrogant nose and the clean lines of jaw and throat. A pulse was beating quite steadily, half hidden by the gaping shirt. If he had reached out Sharpe could have touched it, felt the warmth that he was drawn to, the underlying strength of bone, the covering velvet of skin, the life beating, trapped under his fingertips.

Instead, he did nothing. Just waited, with breath tangling in his throat, to shiver again as the same hand ran its way up his arm and touched his cheek.

Like statues they sat in the lamp-light, held by a suspension of time. The shadows cast around them were quite still, the air barely disturbed by their breath.

After a long sigh, Carlyle touched the ragged strands of hair, letting them fall through the valleys of his fingers, wondering if it might have been lighter than his own. "Why do you think my father considered me such a bad lot?"

The question startled Sharpe. He blinked and shook his head. "Christ knows, I thought young lords could get up to whatever they wanted."

"I suppose some can. But my father was a deeply religious man." He didn't elaborate, as if that simple statement explained it all.

Which in a way it did.

"Was it a stable boy?"

Carlyle shook his head. "One of his friends."

"Bloody hell!"

"Mmm. He caught us in bed, I was arse up and ready. There was no mistaking what we were up to."

The coarse image was all too real. "Lucky he didn't kill you. What happened to the friend?"

"Said I'd seduced him. Which I hadn't." The hand dropped to Sharpe's shoulder.

In the silence, Sharpe could hear both their breath, see the faint reflection of himself in the steady, arrogant stare. "Is it what you're doing now?" Sharpe narrowed his eyes, heat lighting their depths. "Seducing me?"

The hand dropped away as if burned. But Carlyle didn't move away. "And if I was?"

"I don't know." Sharpe could have bellowed in laughter at the lie. He knew exactly what he wanted. Every inch of his skin was alive with the presence of the other man; his nearness, the sweet, heady scent of the sweat that had cooled on his body.

"Are you and your sergeant lovers?"

Taken by surprise, Sharpe answered without guile. "Sometimes."

"Do you love him?"

Sharpe shifted uneasily under the questioning. "What's love?"

"What indeed." Carlyle lay back, his eyes full of shadows, apparently watching the tense lines of his captive's body.

"I've thought myself in love. I've never been right."

Carlyle slid his hands under his head and looked up at the ceiling. "And I've never even imagined it. I've often wondered though."

"Seems like a load of heart-ache if you ask me." Not that it was love he wanted. Not tonight.

"Mmm." Carlyle seemed to consider, then he sat forward again.

Their faces were very close, the light catching brightness in their hair, in the cotton of Carlyle's shirt, in the film of sweat that clung to his skin. Hesitantly he reached out and touched Sharpe again, curving his fingers around the defined line of his jaw, brushing against ear and throat.

Carlyle's dark eyes were carefully clear of expression, the only inescapable evidence of his excitement the erratic beat of the pulse at his throat. "Why do I want you?"

Sharpe couldn't frame an answer. "I don't know." He could hardly speak, let alone reason.

"I could bed with you as easily as eat a fine meal, or drink a bottle of the finest claret. It is fifteen years since I last laid with one of my own sex and yet I could forget every lesson I've ever learned just to possess you. Why?" The fingers tightened until Sharpe winced and moved away from the pain.

"I don't know." He rubbed at his jaw, feeling fresh bruises. "But I feel it too. Sometimes it's just, well, right. I don't know." He gave up in confusion.

"Is this right?"

Sharpe was given no chance to reply for his head was turned and a knowing mouth covered his own, nudging at his lips until he gave up on bewilderment and opened himself to the gentle assault.

Carlyle pulled away, his eyes dark and wide, his lips still parted from the kiss, damp from it. "Tell me, can this be right?" He was whispering, all pretention to studied languor gone from the ragged words.

"Why should it be wrong?" Having tasted his desire, Sharpe wasn't going to let it escape. He twisted and reached for the warmth that had held him.

This time the large hands were brutal. They held their captive in check, cupping his face, eyes blazing. Then without answering, without another word Carlyle was on his feet, banging hard on the door to be released.

*

Wellington raised an interrogatory brow as Hogan stooped to enter the large campaign tent. He threw down the pen with which he had been writing and waited until Hogan was standing in front of the wide mahogany desk. "Well?"

"He's gone, sir."

"Will that bandit leader accept the offer, do you think?"

Hogan shrugged, picked a clear crystal paper-weight off the desk and inspected it before answering. "Well, I don't appear to have the sight, sir, but I'd say it was quite likely."

"What do you know that you aren't telling me, Hogan?"

Hogan blinked, and half-smiled. The Peer was always uncommonly perspicacious. The trick was in knowing how much was bluff and how much true perception. "I think we can rely on the muskets being enough."

Wellington frowned, peering at his Intelligence Officer as a lepidopterist might a rare moth. "So you do know more than you said."

"I didn't want to say anything in front of Harper."

"Fine. I presume you can say whatever it is in front of me?"

Hogan raised astounded eyes to meet piercing blue ones and shook his head in a perfect display of disbelief. "There's nothing I couldn't tell you, sir."

"The day I believe that is the day I give up and go back to England to grow potatoes. Out with it, man!"

"His name is James Carlyle. A long time ago he worked for me."

"For you!" Wellington had a drill-instructor's voice and Hogan winced.

"A long time ago."

"Indeed."

Hogan sighed, he had known this was going to be difficult. "It's a short story, sir. He worked for me here, did some good work and then went native. Went a bit mad." Hogan shifted uneasily under the intense scrutiny that had made royalty quiver. "He might just be wanting the guns to get revenge."

"Does he have some sort of grudge against you?"

"Not me, sir, the English."

"Charming. And we're about to put a hundred prime muskets into the hands of a renegade with a grudge against his own kind. Does that seem like good sense to you, Hogan?"

"Not when you put it like that, sir."

"Mmm. I don't suppose you told Sharpe about this extra little problem?"

"No. I didn't think he needed to know. Though he might by now, of course. Sharpe and Carlyle are two of a kind."

"Sharpe's no traitor!"

"No, I meant more that he can be stubborn as hell. And he's not that good at sticking to orders. They are quite alike, that's why I sent him."

"I though I did that." Wellington sat back and waited.

"Ah, well..."

And the Peer smiled. "You are a devious bastard, Hogan. Just try and remember whose devious bastard you are."

"All the time, sir." Hogan relaxed slightly. "In future that is."

"Quite." Wellington pushed at the map that sat weighted to his desk. The bandit camp was clearly marked in its protective mountainous terrain. "Are you trying to get Carlyle back, is that why you wanted Sharpe to be the one to go, thinking that similarity would make Carlyle open to Sharpe?"

"Yes. If you'd ever met him you'd understand - he'd be much more valuable as an ally than an enemy."

"You should have told Sharpe then, shouldn't you? He might have been more use knowing what was going on. He won't be kind to Carlyle once he knows he's a turncoat."

"But this way Carlyle won't suspect an ulterior motive. He'll see Sharpe and know there is no guile there, no trap."

Wellington suddenly sat forward. "Hogan, you've sent others before Sharpe, haven't you?"

Hogan sighed and nodded.

"What happened to them?"

Hogan gave a vivid mime of a throat being cut.

"Why?"

"Because the last one I sent told him his father was dead and that he'd finally inherited the title. A fact he didn't seem to appreciate." Wellington tapped an impatient finger on the desk and Hogan hurried to explain. "He's old Lord Carlyle's son."

"Good God, I knew his father!" Wellington though for a moment. "I thought the son was reported dead?"

"He was. But they were lies. Old Carlyle cast the son off for some petty misdeed and went on as if he'd died. I believe there is even a tomb with his name on it in the family plot."

"Well I never. A British lord running wild with a pack of cut throats. No wonder you want him back." Wellington considered the father he had known and the man sent to bring the black-sheep back to the fold. "Are you really sure Sharpe was the right choice?"

"No question, sir. They'll get on famously."

"And Carlyle will come back to a hero's welcome and a title." He considered. "Unless Sharpe goes native too. Had you thought of that?"

"The thought had crossed my mind, sir. But Harper will bring him back, don't you worry."

"Mmm. God I hate all this. Give me a good, clean battle any day, rather than all this murky double dealing. At least you seem to thrive on it." He glared balefully at Hogan's comfortable girth.

"I do, sir. I do at that."

"Well, what else have you up your sleeve..."

And the conversation went on with no more mention of the perplexing problem of what was happening miles away in a ruined mountain fortress.


	3. Harper...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah... and Carlyle

*

The shock of the other man's departure ripped the air from Sharpe's lungs. He was on his feet, reaching for the reassurance of touch, for a touch he was sure would bind the other man to his side, when the door opened and without a backward glance Carlyle was gone.

The air shivered with the force of the door slamming, and plaster crumbled derisively from one of the cracks in the wall.

Standing as if rooted, Sharpe wrapped his arms around his body and tried not to think, not to feel. Cursing himself he turned and went back to sit on the bed.

At least he had left the lantern behind. Taking a deep breath, trying to calm the shaking that so unsettled his limbs, Sharpe sat in the circle of its light, his hair a tangle of gold and amber where the flame touched against it. He was staring into the distance, sightless, without thought, bereft of everything but the most shameful need. He could sense every pore of his body, every drop of sweat that trickled slowly down his skin. Most of all he could feel the places, the very pieces of his skin that the other man had touched.

There was no rational thought in his head, only confusion and a passionate need to feel Carlyle close to him, to be once again touched by his hands, to feel the heat of that dark desire burning brightly as his own.

For he had no doubt at all, despite Carlyle's words, that his actions had spoken far more honestly of the truth. The attraction was mutual. As was the lust.

He shivered, remembering the firm touch on his body. And the slight widening of the sleepy eyes when he had reacted to that touch. Mutual indeed.

Not that it looked like doing either of them any good.

He groaned and shifted as the memory became too much for his own self-control; the growing need of his own flesh suddenly becoming pressing.

With a flicker of what could have been resigned amusement, he knew it was perhaps better that he was alone.

Frustration allowing no other recourse, Sharpe moved until he was lying flat on the bed, his fingers hurriedly fumbling to unbutton his trousers, hurrying to bare his groin. Already erect, his cock sprang free from the constricting cotton and seeped need into the warm night air, pulsing in demand as his fingers curled possessively around its length. Eyes wide, he stared at the ceiling, seeing a strong, wide shouldered body in the patterns of the shadows, seeing mocking dark eyes in the contours of the dark.

Stripped almost to his skin, sprawled in loose abandon, he allowed himself the rare luxury of dreaming whilst awake. There was little subtlety to his imaginings. Always confused by his own willingness to be taken by Harper, he felt no need for change in what he wanted from Carlyle. There was no romance, no courtship in this meeting. He imagined the hard touch of flesh on flesh and his own rough impalement. His real body arched as if in pain at the thought and his cock bucked impatiently in his hand. He soothed it, stroking the skin that never ceased to surprise him with its softness, taking it in a firm grip and beginning the easy strokes that would surely bring him off. He closed his eyes and tried to react as if the hand touching him so knowingly was not his own.

He hissed out loud, muscles knotting. He was close, so very close, all surroundings fading as the world shrank to centre on his cock and balls. He could hear his own breath, smell the sweat on his skin, the musk that filled the air with every fevered stroke of his hand. The taste of Carlyle still burned on his tongue, permeated his skin. He was nearly there, nearly. Then he heard a noise and his eyes were open, staring at the open door.

Framed by shadow, his face a mask of acute longing, there stood Carlyle.

The world stopped in its turning. All except Sharpe's cock, which understanding nothing but fulfilment spilled seed unknowingly, to mix with the sweat that clung to his heaving belly and chest and on the clutching fingers.

Helpless, his expression torn between shame and desire, his need untouched by the orgasm that had spent his body, Sharpe could only lie still, his skin burned by that unwavering, feral gaze. Silently he begged that the other man would touch, reach forward, take what he so clearly wanted. Words constricted in his throat, tangled where his heart so precipitously lodged.

How long Carlyle had stood there watching, Sharpe had no idea, but he was clearly aroused, the fabric of his breeches making no secret of that. For a long moment the stillness held, until Sharpe had to move. He shifted, stickily uncurling his hand, his breath suddenly scant, very loud in the stillness. And brought his fingers to his mouth.

When the fingers slid inside, Carlyle groaned, his own hand clutching hard at the door. It was as if he was about to move.

Shame consumed by need, heart beating impossibly in his throat, Sharpe offered himself. With one hand he reached out, wordless, as words were another language. He knew one blinding second when it seemed as if he was going to be met, then to shatter the silence there came the sound of returning guards, their voices loud.

It was as if Carlyle returned from a distant place. He shook his head, a shudder that couldn't be disguised rippling through his body.

Then he was gone. Leaving Sharpe reaching into thin air, leaving him nothing but unwanted freedom to curse in the foulest ways he had ever learned.

*****

For the first time Harper approached the stronghold with his eyes open. In the late afternoon light it looked impressive and quite daunting. Assessing it in much the same way that Sharpe had done, he knew that if this group of bandits wanted they could make life for the British army difficult. If they made it difficult enough to make Wellington decide to do something about them, then pity the poor bastards given the job of laying siege to the place.

Whistling to keep himself company, for he didn't count the four grim looking Spaniards who had kept pace with him for the past two miles, he rode up to the gates and wondered, for about the fiftieth time, if he was mad.

That circuitous train of thought went no further, for the gates creaked open and he was suddenly riding inside.

Searched for weapons, deprived of knife and rifle, he was escorted on foot through the long colonnade that trailed with flowering vine, past groups of bandits he religiously counted as he went, into the damp and chill interior of the thick walled building, casting a curious eye about him as he went.

They led him up what once must have been the main staircase, though now part of it had fallen through and sections of its carved banister were missing, across a hallway and into a wide, simply appointed room that was as crumbling and dilapidated as all the others he had seen. The only difference was that here an attempt had been made at providing comfort; the floor was covered by carpet to hide the battered boards and the room was furnished with an odd selection of ornate furniture, including a paper-strewn desk, chair and a bed. As long as you didn't pay attention to the cracked plaster or the lack of glass in all but one of the windows, it gave the appearance almost of respectability.

Dressed in riding clothes, standing with his back to the open windows, was the man Harper had spoken to before. The Englishman. Sharpe's captor.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Harper. I trust you had a good journey?" There was only specious, mocking good-will in the enquiry and Harper, for a reason he wasn't quite sure of, felt that the exact opposite of the sentiment was more in line with what the other man was thinking.

"It was grand, thanking you." Harper smiled benignly and wondered where his Captain was.

"Good, good." It appeared the Englishman could smile just as emptily. He paced close to Harper, who raised himself to his full height and found he only just looked down on the other man. "And how is Wellington?"

"His Lordship's fighting fit, sir. I'd like to say he sent you his compliments but he neglected to add them to the message."

"I'm sure." The wide lips curled in bitter amusement. "And Major Hogan?"

"The same."

"Indeed." This time the bitterness was unalloyed by humour. Harper watched for any play of emotion on the still face, but the hooded eyes gave nothing away. "So, tell me, what did they say?"

"That we can't spare that amount of muskets, but they're willing for me to negotiate."

The blunt statement had Carlyle turning on his heel, hiding his smile of satisfaction. He went back to the window and looked up, seemingly peering through the ragged canopy of leaves that overhung the room's balcony.

Harper wondered what he was looking at, but said nothing, waiting patiently for the next move.

"So, what do they offer for Captain Sharpe's life?"

"Fifty muskets."

"Fifty!" Carlyle turned. "They don't value him very highly at all, do they?" He didn't wait for an answer but went on. "I could get that many muskets before tomorrow if I tried."

"I'm sure you could, sir. But would they be nice, brand new ones; still shiny, still smelling of England they are."

Carlyle held still, tilting his head to frown at the thick-set Irishman. "A hundred."

Harper shook his head regretfully. "I don't know what they'd say if I agreed to that. Though if you did say that you weren't going to use them on us I might be able to persuade them, the powers that be, that is."

"They don't ask for much, do they."

Ignoring the sarcasm, Harper nodded in agreement. "That's what I was thinking, sir."

Staring at him, Carlyle suspiciously searched for something other than the unperturbed calm that sat so easily on the wide Irish features. "Indeed."

"Yes, sir."

Pacing the room, Carlyle hesitated, then sat himself down on a high-backed chair that stood behind the desk. "One hundred new muskets," he mused, as if to himself, then smiled. "As long as we cease harassing the British."

"And you let Captain Sharpe go."

Carlyle looked up sharply, then nodded. Linking his hands he made a castle of his fingers, staring for a long time at the cage they made. Then he nodded. "As you say." With a decisive nod he broke his hands apart and lounged back. "Well, we are agreed. Ramon!" He shouted the name loudly.

"Si?" A guard appeared at the door and they spoke in so rapid a dialect that Harper with his rough Spanish could not follow. There was some disagreement but in the end the Englishman appeared to give in with bad grace.

He leant forward, resting his arms on the desk, and spoke quite slowly, as if weighing up a completely different issue as he talked. "There, it is all arranged. You'll be our guest for tonight."

"But I need to get back!" Harper took a pace forward, dismayed at the invitation that was certainly an order. "Let me go. The sooner I get back then the sooner you'll have your guns."

Carlyle ran a finger along a groove in the desk, he went on as if to himself. "And the sooner your Captain Sharpe will be free." Then he looked up.

If Harper had been milk he would have curdled under the brooding gaze. He shifted uneasily, not quite sure why he was made to feel so uncomfortable. In fact the whole interview had been conducted with undercurrents that Harper couldn't quite recognise, but knew with certainty that he didn't like. He tried again, "Really, I'll be fine leaving now."

"Well, you can't." This time the tone left no room for doubt. "We're working and I can't spare men to take you back to your lines. Ramon here will escort you to a place for the night. Unfortunately we aren't fitted out as a prison, so you'll have to share your Captain's cell."

His heart leaping at the prospect of checking on Sharpe's well-being in person, Harper suddenly didn't feel so bad about having to wait until morning to leave.

"I thought you might like that." And with that cryptic comment as the end of the interview Carlyle spoke again to the guard and Harper was escorted in silent resignation out of the room.

He was led through a maze of evil-smelling corridors that seemed to be taking him on a journey that wound its way around the central well of the fortress. He took mental note of everything he saw, which wasn't much, as his guard neglected to give him a guided tour of the armoury or indeed any rooms other than damp and dust-strewn corridors. Finally they came to a stairwell and he was taken up four shallow flights until they came to the second floor.

Heart beating faster in anticipation, Harper waited impatiently while Ramon spoke with the man guarding what had to be Sharpe's cell. They were laughing about something, but Harper was too concerned about the man who waited behind the cracking wood to care what was said. After what seemed an age, they clapped each other on the back and with a clink of keys the door was unlocked. With a wide grin the guard stood back and waved Harper through.

*****

Sharpe woke from sleep with the nightmare crawling in his skin and horror befuddling his mind. In panic he reached for his sword, wildly groping for it before he remembered where he was. Wiping an unsteady hand over the shadows that seemed to cling to his face he struggled out of bed, making it to the window where he stood unsteadily taking in deep draughts of heavy, thunder-scented air. After a moment he shivered and tugged his fingers through his hair as if to wipe the clinging essence of the dream away.

It was late afternoon, maybe even early evening. He knew he must have slept for hours; no wonder every limb felt weighted with sleep. After the restlessness of the previous night and the long day of boredom sleeping had seemed the best way to pass the day. At least that way he couldn't be constantly hoping for something that didn't happen.

After his second precipitous exit, Carlyle had not returned. By the time an hour had gone by, Sharpe had wanted to hit the walls. After two he had resigned himself to a sleep that was without ease or comfort.

With the dawn he had woken early, climbed from sweated, crumpled sheets and taken to staring out onto the courtyard, spending hours simply watching, waiting for something, what exactly he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge.

The activity in the stronghold was as restless as Sharpe's thoughts. It was clear that something was brewing. All day there had been flurries of activity and every man who sat for however little time in the open square had cleaned his weapons at least once if not twice. Horses had been ridden in and out of the fortress, vast quantities of food had been consumed. Of Carlyle there was no sign at all, though his lieutenants seemed to be running around in concentric circles.

Sometime around midday one of the more taciturn of the guards had brought Sharpe a meal along with a pitcher of clean water. After a long pretence at misunderstanding, he had also brought a fresh bucket and taken away the fouled one. But only after Sharpe had threatened in mime to hurl the stinking contents out into the crowd below.

Its absence made a vast difference to the comfort of the room, the fetid air clearing almost immediately. Sharpe felt heartened enough to try and persuade the guard to take him out to the water-pump. He was filthy, sweat and grime crusting his skin. Despite being used to the harsh realities of campaign life, he wanted quite desperately to be clean. He'd watched enviously as the men had used the free-flowing water and he'd imagined the coolness of it against his skin until he had to turn away. Looking at his body he felt little but disgust, and had only to compare himself to the fastidious Carlyle to know how disreputable he must appear. The guard didn't care, and was deaf to Sharpe's request.

When he had gone, shrugging in insolent bad grace, Sharpe muttered to himself, then struggling with a torn-off piece of the blanket and what water he thought he could spare, made an awkward but thorough attempt at getting clean. Careful not to foul what he would need to drink, and after much mild cursing, he did feel better and was as presentable as the disagreeable circumstances would allow.

Finally content, he had slipped back into his borrowed breeches and sat down with a sigh compounded of resignation and utter frustration. The meal was still there, sitting coldly on its plate and he slowly chewed his way through the coarse bread and meat that was veined with grey fat and thick with gristle.

Putting the plate on the floor, he had exhausted the day's entertainment.

He tried some gentle exercises, easing his muscles, loosening his joints. He was sweating after only a short while, but persevered, making his damaged muscles groan until they obeyed. He pushed himself beyond the point where sense decreed he stop, and found himself sitting on the bed trying to calm the erratic twitching of the long-muscles in his limbs.

In the end he laid himself flat, his breath clogging on the humidity that had found its way past the thick stone walls, making them too sweat in the oppressive heat. He was resigned to counting cracks, but instead fell immediately into a deep sleep from which the nightmare had rudely shaken him.

He was sitting staring at the floor when laughter from the corridor finally caught his straying attention. Prickling with a wave of anticipation he was on his feet long before the key was even turning in the lock.

But the man admitted wasn't Carlyle. "Harper!" After that one exclamation, Sharpe was shocked into silence.

Harper was never at such a loss for words. "Jesus, but you're looking none too grand. Better than the last time I saw you though, so I shouldn't be complaining." He grinned. "Hello, sir."

"Hello, Pat."

They waited until the locked door gave them privacy then Sharpe took two steps forward and his fingers were clutching at the moth-eaten wool of his sergeant's jacket. "What in hell's name are you doing here! Don't tell me they've taken you?"

"No, sir, nothing like that." Harper let himself be shaken, the mere proximity of his Captain enough to make him almost content. "Hogan and the Peer sent me to negotiate your ransom."

"Don't tell me the old bastards have come up with three hundred muskets? If they have then I might as well stay here as they'll never forgive me!"

"Not quite the three hundred the Englishman originally wanted, just the one."

"One hundred muskets...Jesus, that makes hardly any difference, Wellington will think I owe him blood."

"Oh, he thought that anyway, sir, so I wouldn't worry about it. Just be thankful they want you out of here."

"I suppose so." Letting his hands fall away from Harper's jacket he frowned. "And that still doesn't tell me why you're in here."

"You mean locked up for the night with you? Well, the Englishman and his band of cut-throats are out intent on some villainy tonight. Apparently they couldn't spare anyone to make sure I traipsed back over the Lines like a good boy, and didn't come back here to rescue you." He looked comically aggrieved. "And such a though hadn't occurred to me once."

"Course not!" Sharpe gave a quick, mildly unconvincing grin and sat himself on the edge of the bed.

"Of course they could have found another room, but I don't suppose they've got that many with four good walls."

"No."

Harper surveyed his captain with a wary eye, seeing less health and more strain than he would have liked. Strain and something else. "Are you all right?"

Sharpe looked up and visibly considered five different answers, opened and closed his mouth on a couple of them, then in the end merely shrugged.

Harper leant himself against the wall. "Tell me. The last time I saw you, you were out cold and some bastard was proving he didn't care a farthing for you with his fist."

"I don't remember that."

"Good. But you can take my word for it, and for the fact that I've been a bit concerned about the way they might have been treating you."

Sharpe was picking at a nasty scab on his hand which was clearly itching like the devil, his eyes shadowed by the fall of his hair. "It's been all right." He paused. "Tell me, the man hitting me, was it Carlyle?"

"So that's the English bastard's name. No it wasn't, it was one of his Spaniards."

"Ah."

Harper wiped his sleeve over his face and tried a different tack. "I've got your jacket safe."

"Great."

Harper resisted the urge to court the ignominy of court-martial just for a moment's satisfaction. He folded his hands across his body, tucking his fists out of harm's way. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"No!" Sharpe exploded to his feet, making his companion jump. "I'll be bloody glad to be out of this pox-hole."

That was better. "Well, so you would. Hogan's getting the muskets ready, I'll be right back and then you can spit in the eye of that bastard out there."

"His name is Carlyle. Lord James Philip Glebe Carlyle."

"Fancy now!" Harper tried not to wonder at the bitter tone in which the name was said. "And was he the one ordered this done?" He pushed away from the wall and reaching out, gently touched one of the bruises that scattered in various hues from black to green to ochre across the thin-fleshed torso.

Sharpe laughed; a short, quick sound that echoed dryly in the room. "Apparently his men needed to let off steam."

"Jesus, I'm surprised they didn't kill you."

"So was I."

"Why couldn't they have gone and knocked seven kinds of shit out of the French instead of you?"

"Oh, I think they do that as well. They like their entertainment." Sharpe looked Harper in the eye and his expression was easier, hinting at the possibility of wry amusement. "At least they weren't out fighting us. Though Christ knows what they're going to be up to tonight, I've been thinking about it on and off all day."

"Carlyle did say they'd leave us alone in exchange for the muskets."

"Ay, but he hasn't got them yet, has he?"

"No."

"And he hates the English." Sharpe sat himself down again, pulling his legs under him to lean against the wall.

"Does he now. Perhaps he's not as bad as he seems."

Sharpe almost smiled. "Come on, Pat. You don't hate all of us."

"No." Harper considered, then smiled back. "I'm very glad they didn't kill you."

"So am I."

A sort of amicability restored, they fell back into a companionable silence. Harper paced the room, muttering about the lack of ways to escape, rattled at the door only to be greeted by a cascade of irate Spanish. He peered out at the darkening sky and knew a storm was due. Making a face at it, he turned back into the room and began to strip off his jacket, tossing it casually into a corner before wiping his face on a shirt-sleeve. "It'll storm tonight, sure enough."

Sharpe wasn't listening. Harper turned to where Sharpe sat in a pool of silence on the bed and it was clear he hadn't heard a word. Taking the few steps to his captain's side, Harper crouched and laid a gentle hand on his knee.

"Tell me?"

Startled from his reverie, Sharpe looked Harper straight in the eye. "What?"

"What you want."

Sharpe began to shake his head, then reached out and slowly curved his hand over the warmth of Harper's. "Come to bed?"

"Here?" Harper was mildly scandalised.

"We'll be left alone."

"Are you sure?"

"You don't usually doubt me."

Sharpe sketched what was meant to be a smile. Lost in that single, stark exposure of need, Harper turned his fingers until they were linked with the finer ones that fitted so well with his own. And nodded.

It was near to dark. Shadows had been crawling through the room almost without either man noticing. Harper stood up and reached for the lamp.

"There's no oil in it." Sharpe's voice stopped him. "It doesn't matter, we don't need it."

"I like to look at you."

Sharpe gave a short, almost laugh. "So you can see what you're doing to your officer?"

"So I can see what Richard Sharpe looks like off duty." Harper wondered at the bitterness that had crept into the other man's thinking. "I like to look. You're no hardship on the eyes."

This time the laugh was easy, if layered in disbelief. "A likely story! Now get your clothes off."

"Yes, sir!"

By the time he had stripped off the remnants of his clothing and climbed onto the bed, Sharpe was naked too. Harper ran his hands over the familiar skin and smiled at the sigh that answered his touch. They had done this so often, in so many places, in so many furtive and hidden ways that he could chart the hard body at his side without compass or stars. He liked to have light, to see the need his touch incited, but he didn't require it. He reached forward, bringing the lighter man closer, letting their bodies touch full length, hiding his surprise at the already hard demand that surged urgently against the rising heat of his own.

He realised that a faint tremor was running constantly through the other man and increased the pressure of his hands, whispering under his breath to calm whatever storm of need was raging in his lover.

But Sharpe was wound too tight, he twisted in the sure grip, pressing himself against the bulk and heat beside him, hissing sharply when Harper tried to pull away, to slow things down. "No! Pat..." He was incoherent, almost beside himself with a desire that had little to do with the man in whose arms he was held. "Patrick?"

And Harper knew. He shook his head in dismay. "There's nothing for me to use."

"Spittle." The answer was terse, hoarse with impatience. He was already turning, unlocking limb from limb so he could spread himself flat, burying his face in the sweat-grimed sheet. He took a deep, shaky breath that was quite audible in the still, empty night and finally managed to find control enough to say in a soft, uneven tone over his shoulder, "Please?"

Harper said nothing, concentrating instead on finding some saliva in his suddenly dry mouth. As incentive he knelt between the wide-spread legs, curving his hand over the fine-downed skin of thigh and buttock, seeing the darker shadow of his hand as it travelled across the pale, night-silvered skin. Milking his own cock, needing the first drops of seed to fall as easier lubricant than spit on its own, he felt disconnected, as if this act had precious little to do with him, little to do with what relationship he thought he had with the man lying so openly at his mercy. Not that such fine scruples stopped his cock from hardening or his body from pressing forward, all too eager to be sheathed in that pliant flesh.

He spat, fingering the liquid into the crease that in a swathe of shadow split Sharpe's body with an arrow of darkness, adding the first spilling of his own body to the offering, hurrying as Sharpe twisted, groaning as fingers pressed inside him.

"Fuck me!" The roughly whispered words were a command. "Do it, do it now."

Obedient despite the doubts that weighed him, Harper spread himself across the over-heated skin, nudging his cock into place, finding the tightness that gave so much pleasure and slowly pushed in.

As a coupling it wasn't easy for either man. Coming almost immediately Sharpe had to bite on his hand to stifle the scream he couldn't free, sobbing as the pain and the pleasure flash-fired within him, stripping away all possibility of restraint. He came until he was shuddering wildly, almost mindless, wits scattered to the four winds.

When he finally drew them back together and pulled the chewed skin of his hand away from his teeth, Harper was still moving, making small noises in the back of his throat that Sharpe had never heard before. Guilt filled Sharpe and he gasped as the lack of lubricant began to take its toll. The pain was almost welcome; an apt punishment for the crime committed. He gave himself up to it, knowing that Harper needed him. He gathered his resources and pushed back, rewarded by a groan of relief and a speeding of the long strokes that pressed him so deeply into the hard bed. Sweat dripped from both men, Sharpe had his eyes tight closed and his teeth were set, grimly determined not to give in. There was no pleasure, only need and when Harper finally convulsed and shuddered against him the only emotion left was that of relief, and when the heavy cock slid free of his flesh Sharpe couldn't help the small, animal sound that escaped his lips.

Battered and aching, Sharpe castigated himself, feeling nothing but the acrid bitterness of shame. Awkwardly he turned, for the first time almost afraid to meet his friend, appallingly thankful for the darkness.

"Pat?"

There was only silence, which Sharpe read as reproach.

"Jesus, I'm sorry."

In the narrow confines of the bed, Harper settled awkwardly until he was lying flat, then with a sigh drew Sharpe's uneasy, strain-tight body into the circle of his arm. "Will you tell me what it was all about?"

He felt the shudder that ran from Sharpe's head to his toes. "Pat..."

"How about if you tell me in the morning?"

Sharpe sounded as if he was choking, "Why are you such an understanding bastard?"

"Must be having all those sisters." Harper smiled into the blind night and tightened the pressure of his arm in what he hoped was a reassuring way. "Go to sleep?" He felt Sharpe's abrupt nod. "Night then, sir."

"Night, Pat." There was perhaps a sound of hesitation, as if Sharpe was considering the possibility of saying more, but in the end there was nothing but listless silence.

Harper waited. The thick stone walls creaked in the heat and he too sweated, too confused, too perturbed to push Sharpe away and gain a measure of respite from the humidity by that means. An owl was out hunting. Harper waited, listening for other sounds, but there were none, just the steady intake and release of breath from the man at his side.

In the end he muttered under his breath something that could have been a Christian prayer, or maybe was an invocation to an older God. He closed his eyes. Sleep came slowly, but when it eventually reached him he went willingly, tired of the twists and turns of his thoughts, worn out by worry and what he cheerlessly hoped was over-cautious concern.

*****

They were woken by the door slamming back on its hinges.

Sharpe sat up with a grimace that faded as he took in the state of Carlyle. "What happened?" He was climbing awkwardly off the bed, oblivious to his nakedness, or that of Harper's.

Carlyle pushed the door shut with his foot and glared imperiously down his nose. "We won, what does it look like?"

Considering he was covered in dry blood and powder burns scorched his face, the question was a strange one. Sharpe gave a single shake of his head and tried to work out where Carlyle could be hurt. "Where's the blood coming from?"

"The blood?" For a moment Carlyle was at a loss. Then his expression cleared as he looked down at the gory state of his once fine clothing. "Oh, the blood's not mine. I told you, I doctor my men." He smiled, the whiteness of his teeth showing briefly, catching viciously in the early dawn light.

"Oh." Sharpe sat down, too heavily for his own good and couldn't quite hide the wince.

"I came to tell you that your sergeant can go."

Harper was on his feet and already dressing. He had missed nothing of the short exchange and his only concern now was to get Sharpe away from this place as soon as possible. "I'm ready."

"Good." He called out in Spanish and just as Harper was shrugging untidily into his jacket a knock sounded at the door. "That's your escort." Carlyle put his hand on the door-handle. "They're none too pleased about being sent out so soon, so you might have a fast journey."

"The faster the better." Harper looked the tall Englishman straight in the eye and his expression hid nothing.

The only reaction was a quirking of the wide mouth. But there was no doubt that the challenge had been accepted. "Goodbye, Sergeant. Come back soon."

"Don't fret yourself about that. You won't even know I've been gone."

"Won't we? Well, maybe, maybe not."

Harper almost took a step towards the tacit invitation, but Sharpe was there, holding his arm. Harper turned towards him and the eloquence in the heart of his eyes was enough to make Sharpe's skin ripple in reaction and to make him alarmingly aware of his own nakedness. As soon as he was sure that the Irishman was going to do nothing foolish he turned and picking up his breeches stepped self-consciously into them.

When he turned, Harper was at the door. What was there to say? "Good-bye, Pat. Thanks."

"Save them for Wellington." And he sketched a grin that almost worked before stepping through the open doorway. His voice could be heard almost to the end of the corridor as he tried to talk with the guards, his lilt gradually fading, leaving Sharpe alone with his enemy.

"What did he do to you?"

Surprised, Sharpe shook his head, "Eh?"

"These bruises weren't here when I left." Carlyle was suddenly very close, his fingers touching the hand prints which skimmed what could be seen of Sharpe's jutting collar-bones. "Do you let him hit you?"

"Don't be stupid!" The derision was quite clear.

"Then what?"

"He fucked me!" Anger raised Sharpe's voice and his breath was fast, his nostrils flaring with the force of emotion that was suddenly storming in his blood. "Happy now?"

"No." It was a shout, the single word twisting his mouth into a semblance of ugliness. "I knew I was mad to leave you together. Mad..." He came closer, the bitter smell of sweat and dry blood lifting from his clothes. "It was a test, to myself you understand. If he could spend a night with you and not touch you then why should I have such trouble sleeping just because you are locked in a room in the same place. And then I walk in here and all I can smell is you and all I can see are the marks he left to litter your skin. Jesus." He pressed Sharpe until he was against the wall, desire burning like a flame in the darkness deep in his eyes. "I have killed countless Frenchmen this night, I've watched men I care about die and all I've thought of was you. What have you done to me?" The wide eyed question was unanswerable for he covered Sharpe's mouth with his own, the kiss savagely demanding much more than silence.

When Carlyle pulled back, his eyes were glazed, filled with mindless lust. "Turn around."

The demand brooked no misunderstanding and Sharpe, aroused as he was, could only shake his head in denial. "No..."

The blow caught the side of his jaw and stunned him, more from surprise than pain. He felt himself turned though he fought, the other man careless of everything but his own need, his greater weight and height giving no quarter.

"No..." he tried again. There was no arousal now. Breath was forced from his body and fingers were ripping the old cotton from his hips, then without preamble were pressing into the pain that the previous night's coupling had bequeathed. "Carlyle!" Sharpe knew there had to be a way to stop this, he wasn't sure if he could survive if he was taken with this sort of fury still boiling in Carlyle's blood. "James, don't!"

He cried out as the fingers began to rip him apart, the sound finally permeating the haze that filled his captor's thoughts.

Everything stilled. Then Carlyle brought his hand up to where he could see it. "Sweet Jesus." He staggered backwards, holding the hand in front of him as if it were diseased. Then he looked up, horror stark on his face. "What was I going to do?"

Sharpe leant against the wall and shivered as the sweat that coated his body quickly chilled in the early morning air. He was very pale, the dark bruises on his face livid against its pallor. "Fuck me. But you didn't." He shook his head, mildly stunned at the bright blood that coated Carlyle's fingertips.

"I knew he'd hurt you, but I didn't imagine." Carlyle fumbled with his shirt, pulling it loose from his breeches in order to wipe the hand on a clean piece of its cotton, before finally looking up in dismay tinged with disgust. "Is it always like that? Does he always hurt you enough to make you bleed?"

"No. I was mad myself last night, made him do it, despite not having anything to make it easy." Sharpe rested both shoulders against the wall and sighed, cursing himself and the fallibility of his flesh. "I used him."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted you." Carlyle shuddered as if a knife had been skimmed across his skin. "And I still do, though you might have to wait for anything quite like that."

"Richard..."

"Come here."

Carlyle swallowed, then obeyed.

Sharpe straightened and when the other man was very close, he gave a brief smile of singular sweetness, his eyes unshadowed, his voice soft and sweet. "If I was mad last night, I must be twice as mad today. Come here."

The command was almost valueless as they were so close, but Carlyle took another half-step that brought him pressed close to the nakedness in front of him. Then he too smiled, recognising both the absurdity and the rarity of what they shared.

He touched the place on Sharpe's chin where his fist had struck, regret passing like rain across his face. "I'm good at hurting you."

"Never mind. I don't break easily."

"Just as well."

They were both smiling; blood, grime and pain forgotten in the brief moment of knowing. It held between them like mist; the rightness, the coming homeness of it all. In that brief moment everything changed, as if time itself had only just begun and all that went before was just a dream of another person, a stranger far away. Carlyle tentatively moved forward and with almost gauche hesitation offered a kiss, tilting his head, blinking as the offer was accepted with surprising grace. This time there was no violence, no avaricious need, simply a tenderness that surprised each man and took the breath fleeing from their lungs.

When their lips parted, Carlyle looked almost serene. His eyes were dark, still shadowed by the fever burning inside, though now it was held in check, controlled. "If I let you out of here, will you promise me not to try and escape?"

Sharpe gave a snort of amusement. "Do you think I'll try?"

Carlyle tilted his head to one side and considered. "This could all be a bluff."

"Mmm, and the moon's made of cream cheese." He grinned suddenly, happiness as rare as diamonds spreading like heat through his whole body. "Tell you what, if I can have ten minutes under that water-pump of yours, I'll give my word."

"Very well." The long nose wrinkled. "I could do with the same if not longer myself."

"I never noticed."

"Liar." Carlyle smiled in bemusement, as if he had suddenly found the world had proven itself to be a mirage, and stepped away; waiting only until Sharpe had fashioned a semblance of decency out of his torn breeches before leading him out of the cell and towards his own quarters.

*****

It was a beautiful morning. The promised storm had swept past them and flashes of lightning could be seen far in the distance. The air was still sultry, but the oppressive heat of the previous day and night was lifting, leaving warmth and overhead a bright, cloud dusted sky.

Sharpe stepped away from the pump, signalling to the boy who manned it so industriously that enough was enough, finally giving in to the fact that he couldn't stay under the cascading water forever. He straightened, pushing his hair out of his eyes, wincing as virtually every part of him protested. He stood quite still, eyes lightly closed, basking in the moment like an indolent cat in the sunlight. Yesterday he could not have imagined this, this pleasure. Yesterday had been a different country. A country he had no desire to return to.

He started as a cloth was thrown at him, reacting fast enough to catch it before it landed on the wet stones at his feet. Opening his eyes he smiled when he saw Carlyle, one foot propped against a stone trough, laughing at him. He had been the first to use the pump and to Sharpe's eyes looked immaculate, all remnants of the previous night swept away by water, soap, blade and comb. He fingered his own chin and wanted the same.

"Dry yourself on that."

Sharpe finally looked at what he had caught and began to use the wide sheet of cotton as Carlyle had instructed, before wrapping it in a swathe around himself and following the other man inside, ignoring the cold, speculative stares from the few men who were lounging around the square.

Inside Carlyle's room, he waited until the door was firmly closed, then looked with undisguised curiosity around him. He went over to the bed and eyed it with amusement. "Where did you get this from, it looks like it came out of a high-class brothel." He scanned the room. "In fact all of the furniture does."

"Would you believe from the baggage train of a French colonel?"

"Bloody hell! He must've been a rich one."

"Mmm, we ransomed him for more gold than would feed the British army for six months." Carlyle walked lazily across and stared down. "It's monstrous, isn't it?"

"I certainly wouldn't've thought it belonged to you."

"It's comfortable, that's all I care about." He crossed his arms, looking oddly at his companion. "What would you imagine me sleeping in?"

"Something not dripping in gold-leaf for a start! Maybe a huge four-poster, something like you'd imagine one of the old kings sleeping in."

Carlyle shuddered delicately. "I grew up with those monstrosities. Give me something that doesn't stink of mildew, or have a mattress less comfortable than the mountainside out there. I'm all for bodily comfort, and speaking of which, there's water and razor in there." He nodded to a curtained off corner of the room. As Sharpe turned, he smiled and reached out to smooth his thumb over the dusting of dark gold beard that softened the clean line of jaw. Unshaven, hair half-dry and in a tangled thatch, the Rifleman still looked dangerously desirable. But Carlyle was prosaically quite prepared for such appreciation to be merely part of his madness. He shrugged, letting the hand fall to his side. "If you want, that is?"

"If? Don't be daft." Sharpe went over and pulled the curtain back. The ornate bowl and gold-handled razor, the gilt encrusted mirror; all must have belonged to the same French colonel. "Did you leave him anything?"

"No."

"Didn't think so." Sharpe pushed his hands into the wide bowl and sighed in sheer pleasure when he found the water was warm. Cupping it into his joined hands he brought it to his face, letting it run into his tired eyes, soak his three day beard. There was a cake of soap beside the bowl and rubbing it between his palms he worked up a luxuriant lather before soaping his bristled chin. Rinsing his hands he picked up the too-pretty blade, opening it dubiously, sure that something so ornamental could never perform its task adequately. With his thumb he tested its edge but the doubt was unfounded, the slim blade was honed to perfection. He grinned in surprise and then began, with great delight, to shave.

Meanwhile, Carlyle walked over to a small table and poured them both a drink. Returning, he hesitated, a glass in each hand, watching the even glide of fine-honed blade across the long line of throat and jaw, seeing it careful of all the healing scrapes, the marks that were clearly still tender to the touch. For a moment he caught the intent eyes, their gaze meeting in the cracked pane of the ormolu mirror, making the razor halt in its path, then Sharpe looked away and the rasping sweep of the blade continued.

Finished, he wiped his face on a corner of the sheet in which he was wrapped and then, having pulled a comb haphazardly through the tangle of his hair, walked back to Carlyle.

A long hand held out a crystal glass filled with wine. "Here, drink this." Carlyle offered the drink, watching intently the way Sharpe walked, the still constrained movements of his body. Despite that, he appeared curiously at home, and would probably do so wherever he was: at home and peculiarly himself, two traits Carlyle envied, for he didn't recognise them in himself.

Sharpe took the glass, and drank thankfully. He was hungry, the wine waking his stomach with a subdued growl.

"You're hungry."

Sharpe couldn't deny the accusation. "Bloody starving."

"Wait." And Carlyle was walking to the door, opening it and speaking in quick, commanding Spanish to whoever stood on its other side. After a few moments he returned. "Miguel will bring something, God knows what as the whole place is in chaos after last night."

"What happened?"

Carlyle closed his eyes and shuddered. "We won."

When the eyes opened, Sharpe wondered at the madness that stared for a brief second back at him, then it was gone, leaving only red-rimmed tiredness. He remembered the blood that had soaked the fine wool of Carlyle's jacket, saw the violence that still surged beneath the charm and elegant manners. He didn't ask again about the night's activities.

As if Sharpe had never asked the question, Carlyle swirled the liquid in his glass around and asked inconsequently, "Do you like fish for breakfast?"

"What, kippers?"

"More like a local fresh-water trout. They're quite good, I think that's what I can smell cooking."

And indeed, the mouth-watering aroma of baking fish was being carried on a slight breeze through the floor-length window. Sharpe went over and with a brief glance at Carlyle, stepped out onto the balcony and peered down into the courtyard, where he saw one of the women turning the fish as they cooked on a metal griddle over the fire. It was very quiet, most of the men asleep or about business elsewhere. Another woman was gutting more of the same fish, readying them for when the first batch were done, which from the smell would be quite soon.

Carlyle appeared at his side, looking out into the courtyard. Sharpe leant on the crumbling stone wall that edged the balcony and watched his companion obliquely. He wondered what Carlyle would do if he kissed him. The thought startled him. He frowned slightly, wondering why such an intimate gesture should be so possible with this man when it had with no other. So possible and so unashamedly arousing. He watched a strong hand where it rested lightly against the pale stone, and wanted to touch it. To bring it to his lips.

The need invoked a faint sense of treachery. This was an enemy, how could he feel like this? He considered the fact, then mentally shrugged it away. Ducos was an enemy, Carlyle was a prospective ally. And besides, at this particular moment, Sharpe knew he wouldn't have cared what Carlyle was. He knew only what he felt, knew only the truthfulness of it.

Carlyle turned and met his look. There was something behind the immediately offered smile. Some shadow. Sharpe straightened. "What's up?"

"Are you always so direct?"

"Ay." Sharpe gave a crooked, feral grin. "When I want."

"Well," Carlyle took a deep breath, "I want to examine you. Make sure I didn't hurt you."

"Hah!" Sharpe hid his disconcertion in the exclamation. "Well, I can tell you, I'm fine. There's no more bleeding."

"Jesu! Then why are you moving as if someone's shoved a poker up your arse."

"Because I bloody well ache, why d'you think!" Vexed, and none too keen on being left vulnerable, Sharpe retreated back into the room, irritated when Carlyle followed at his heel. He considered arguing, then settled on changing the subject. "And should lords use language like that?"

"As you once remarked, lords can do what they want."

"I still can't believe that you're one of them - one of our illustrious aristocracy."

Carlyle winced. "Don't worry about it, I should think my father in his grave shares the same problem. Sometimes I do myself." He shrugged, pushing away unwelcome thoughts. "And what about you, you're clearly no lord - if I may say so." He bowed, making no doubt of the compliment. "Yet you are an officer."

"I was raised from the ranks. I fit about as well as a square peg in a round hole, I know that. But I'm a bloody good soldier, which is just as well, as it's all I know how to do."

"You are so different from how I imagined the day you rode into here and tried to parley with me. I thought you would be a typical hard-nosed English bastard, and instead..."

"I'm an untypical hard-nosed English bastard."

They both smiled, and Carlyle answered, "If you will."

They were both silenced by a knock on the door. "Breakfast, go and sit down."

Sharpe looked around and decided on the bed. He carefully lowered himself onto its edge and was quite at ease when Carlyle returned carrying a tray laden with food.

"You did say you were hungry."

"I did." Sharpe eyed the food being set before him and raised both brows. "Is this for both of us?"

"Yes. Though I can always call for more if it isn't enough."

"Don't fret, this'll be plenty." Sharpe smiled, then, when Carlyle seemed to be content to hover, tutted. "And sit down yourself, eat before it gets cold."

Carlyle settled himself as if preparing to dine at Carlton House, then with a certain ceremony he picked up a fine, spouted pot and poured what could only be coffee into two bone-china cups.

Sharpe closed his eyes and groaned as the aroma hit.

Carlyle smiled, happy at the result of his experiment. "Real French coffee."

Sharpe opened his eyes and taking the fragile cup enquired, "The colonel's?"

"Who else." Carlyle raised his cup. "To the French."

"To their belongings, anyway!" Sharpe drank, the taste exploding in his mouth, delicious, hot and heady, as good as he remembered. Even the feel of the thin china against his lips was so rare a sensation that it seemed to add an extra dimension of pleasure; a dimension unfound in his usual world where acorns and barley were ground to be drunk out of enamel-chipped tin mugs. He felt some of the greyness of exhaustion lift away and suddenly he had energy not just to be hungry, but actually to eat. He broke a round loaf in two and offered half to Carlyle. "Your breakfast, Milord!"

"Thank you." And with a sketched bow, the bread was taken from his hands, an open smile given as exchange.

They ate in silence, chewing earnestly, both fired by a ravenous hunger that needed no conversation. When the simple meal was over and the plates piled on the tray by the door, Carlyle relaxed into the bed and sighed with pleasure. He watched Sharpe as he finished the coffee, waiting until the cup was empty and set aside before asking, "Is there anything else you want?"

Sharpe looked up, raising an eye-brow. "Well, I couldn't eat another thing, that's for certain. But I wouldn't mind something to wear other than this sheet."

"Shame, for you look good in it."

"Very funny. But I don't care what it looks like, it's bloody uncomfortable."

Carlyle stood up and walked across the room to rummage through a vast chest that stood half-hidden by the desk. "How about these, they look about right."

Sharpe picked up the tail of his sheet and walked across the room. "Whose were they."

Carlyle looked blank. "You know, I've no idea. I suppose they must have been the Frenchman's but to be honest, we've looted from so many places that I can't remember. I just kept what looked like it might fit, or be useful." He registered mild surprise. "Does it matter?"

"No, I was just curious." The clothes were simple, a pair of cream breeches and a white shirt, but they must have been made from the very finest silk. Sharpe took them from the offering hands and held the rich fabrics for a moment. Then he turned, slid from the sheet and with strange modesty began to dress while facing away from the kneeling man.

A hand stopped him; curving against his skin it took his breath away. He didn't think his body could react, he was tired, worn by the strain of the past hours, days. Yet the single touch irrefutably stirred his blood, in a way that almost no other ever had. He shivered, then whispered with eyes half-closed, "Don't do that."

"Let me. I only want to make sure you are all right."

Sharpe twisted, looking back over his shoulder. "Only?"

"Well... Let's say first then."

Sharpe sighed. "If you must." Giving up on trying to put on any clothing, he stepped out of the breeches and walking over to the bed carefully laid the garments across its foot-board, taking a moment to be mildly surprised at the antics the cherubs carved there were getting up to. Striving for ease he turned and saw that the other man hadn't moved. "What are you doing?"

"Watching you."

"Ah." Distinctly discomfited, Sharpe couldn't say anything.

Then Carlyle stood up and walked intently across the room. In the filtered daylight his hair was lighter than Sharpe's, his skin paler, though scattered across with freckles. He carried a small container in his hand and placed it on a table beside the bed.

"I won't bite."

"Really?"

"Well, not now." There was a shadow of amusement; of what might be. "Lie down."

Warily, Sharpe sat on the edge of the bed, then laid himself flat, belly down. It felt uncommonly embarrassing.

Carlyle ran a comforting hand down the scars to stroke the rounded curve of one buttock. When a swathe of skin lifted in a wave of goose-bumps he apologised, then went on with impersonal efficiency to inspect and salve the abused part of Sharpe's anatomy.

"We tore you, that's all. The salve will aid the healing."

"Have you had to do this before?" Sharpe made a small noise in the back of his throat but the discomfort was brief and almost immediately he began to feel ease.

"One of my men was raped by a group of the French. He lived for three days, but nothing I could do would save him."

"I'm sorry." Sharpe turned his face and their eyes met.

"I might hate most Englishmen, but I hate all Frenchmen a lot more." He stood from where he had crouched on the floor, letting Sharpe right himself before touching a finger to his face. "Remember that."

Puzzled by the other man's intensity, Sharpe could only nod, though from the look on the sombre face he knew it was clearly not enough and he held his voice steady to answer. "I'll remember."

It was enough; muscles that Carlyle hadn't consciously tightened, eased and he stood straighter, at once lighter, as if he had been released from some burden. His hand relinquished its light contact and he began a different conversation. "If I offered you a choice between a guided tour of my kingdom or sleep, which would you prefer?"

The mention of sleep was too much, and Sharpe almost split his jaw with a wrenching yawn.

"I think that answers that!" Carlyle tugged at his cravat, pulling the ends from his shirt and unwinding it from around his neck, before beginning to unfasten the small pearl buttons of his shirt. "Get in then."

"In here?" Sharpe touched the bed with its fine linen sheets and ornate brocade cover.

"I'm not letting you sleep on the floor, whatever Wellington makes you do." The shirt was off and the breeches and stockings followed suit. "Besides, I'm tired too."

Sharpe could see that; the smudges under the long, curious eyes were as dark as bruises.

Naked, Carlyle stood at the side of the bed and placed his hands on his hips. "I'll behave, I promise."

Sharpe eyed the long body, seeing the weight of muscle, the understated power. His skin was smooth, dark honey blended with cream, even his face somehow only lightly tanned by the years of living in the dry heat and sunlight of the south. A dusting of dark-gold hair arrowed from belly to groin, leading to a cock that, even in repose, was of admirable dimensions.

"See, it's as tired as I am." Carlyle touched a hand to his groin and curving a finger under his cock-head lifted it in demonstration. But despite its owner's faith, it gave a definite pulse, growing slightly in his hand. He dropped it in consternation.

Sharpe met the wide eyes and could only grin; won over by the so sweet and unlikely appeal that gentle laughter was the only reply. Pulling back the covers he crawled inside, leaving Carlyle to tug the weightier ones away, leaving just the thin linen sheet to lie across him.

The mattress was even and firm, the sheets unbelievably soft. He sighed in a moment of total hedonism, gently arching his spine to feel the play of fabric against his skin. And coloured as he saw Carlyle watching him.

"Don't." Carlyle hurriedly slid inside the sheets and touched his hand to the curve of Sharpe's shoulder. "There's no shame in appreciating any of this. None at all."

Sharpe reached out in turn and ran a finger down the line of breast-bone and belly, finding a brief home in the warmth of Carlyle's groin. "Not even this?" He found the grace to smile as he took his hand away, uncertain curiosity making him wonder, "I thought you didn't approve?"

"Pleasure is a simple thing." Carlyle began as if answering a different, simpler question. Then he met Sharpe's eyes. "When I was a child I learned not to be afraid of it. However, what I have been afraid of is myself."

"Yourself? But your father..."

Carlyle interrupted the confusion. "I gave him as an excuse, because to tell you I was scared seemed ridiculous. I damned my father long ago." The words were spoken as a quiet, elementary statement. "I've never had any problem in finding delight in the pleasures of the senses; why shouldn't I, or anyone? And as for finding delight in bed with one of my own kind, what is so different about that? I've rejected my father's thinking about everything from the Roman faith he clung to so tenaciously, to politics, to the choice of colours that I wear. Yet for years I never questioned the truth of that one particular lesson he taught me, never doubted that loving the wrong person would see me damned. In all the years since I left England I've hardly thought about that side of myself so deep had I buried it. Then you came here, and I don't think I'll ever think the same way again." He paused, considering, but there were no more words. "Can you understand?"

"I think so." Sharpe was quiet for a moment, then he shifted slightly, resting his fingers against Carlyle's, attempting in a moment's explanation to make all of this understood, to say in words to this man all the things he had never explained to another person. "The way I grew up, there was nothing, no pleasure. If I slept on a dry bit of floor I was lucky; if the man who was paying for the use of my throat didn't try and slit it, then I counted that a good day, the very best I could hope for. I've had to learn to enjoy whatever pleasure I can find, wherever I find it."

"You never felt it wrong?"

"To bed with another man? No, though I swore I'd never have to sell myself ever again." Sharpe sighed, his eyes distant, remembering. "When I was a boy it kept me alive, now...well sometimes I feel it does the same now. Harper taught me, taught me more than I'll ever be able to repay. He gave me so much, made me learn that there can be more to coupling with another man than a quick, joyless fuck." Sharpe gave a soft, embarrassed laugh, suddenly uncomfortable with the depth of his own disclosures. "I can bed with you, no problem. Getting to enjoy the sheets and the feather mattress without feeling as if I've stolen them might take a bit longer."

"I was the one who stole them!"

"That's different."

"For goodness sake, why?"

"Because you're used to the best things. Even here, where the walls are falling down around your ears, you've surrounded yourself with possessions I could never even dream of owning." Briefly he wondered what Harper would say about the gilt-encrusted bed, and almost laughed. He'd hate it almost as much as he would surely hate its owner. "I can't imagine what it was like, growing up to take comfort as requirement rather than luxury."

"I've known hardship. Truly." He poked Sharpe who was busy trying not to grin. "I might have grown up with every luxury that money had the power to buy, but after that, well I suppose you could say that some years were more difficult than others."

Sharpe knew the words were the truth. Carlyle had an edge that luxury alone could never bring. It somehow made everything easier, emphasised their similarities whilst making nothing of their differences. A pampered lord would have been nothing. And Carlyle was never that. Sharpe nodded slowly, a slight frown pulling his brows together. "Perhaps you only see how good things are when you've seen how bad they can also be."

"Very true." Carlyle pulled Sharpe to him, bringing them intimately close. His eyes were very dark, the pupils expanded until they consumed the brown; the opaque darkness touched in their depths by a lingering fever of madness. His voice was a soft whisper. "I've seen into hell - maybe even been there - yet I'm not sure I care any longer."

"Hell is something you fight your way out of."

"Fight." Carlyle twisted the word in his mouth, tasting it, clearly not caring for its flavour. "We've both fought too much. What about love?" At his own words, Carlyle was suddenly lost, confused; a shiver that started in his spine spread to run almost imperceptibly through them both.

Sharpe shook his head, in doubt rather than denial. "I don't know."

"Nor do I. How can we?" But before the words had all left his mouth he brought their lips together and kissed gently, sighing as Sharpe responded, his tongue flicking almost shyly in greeting. The embrace, the meeting of body to body, of breath to breath left Carlyle blind, lost for an age in the delicacy, the strange, exotic sweetness of the kiss. Here there was no difficulty of understanding; here the silent language needed no interpretation, left no conflict, no impossible demands. Seductive as water in a desert as wide as the sky, it was seemingly infinite, stretching the boundaries of who and where until they threatened to snap like sun-baked clay.

Finally, it was Carlyle who pulled back, gradually drawing away until he could breath, until he could focus, and give that cat's smile that smiled without seeming to. "This is no sort of fight, is it?"

"No." Sharpe slowly shook his head. "Of what I might want from you, to fight is not part of it. I promise."

Carlyle held quite still, then was suddenly suffused with almost incandescent delight. Lifting his hand he stretched its fingers wide and spread them around the curve of Sharpe's head, thumb rubbing absently over the dark bruise that marred the jaw-line. He whispered, as if to speak loudly would shatter the air, shatter the crystal shell of his own longing. "This isn't wrong. It can't be."

Sharpe began to speak, but broke off, almost dislocating his jaw in an effort to hide the sudden yawn of tiredness. Then he tried again, "I suppose th..."

Carlyle placed a finger across his lips and commanded silence. "Shush. Go to sleep - we'll talk later. There'll be time."

Time... Sharpe frowned and wondered where such a rare commodity could be found. And if by some miracle they found time, where would it all lead, where would this so deep captivation take them? If it could lead anywhere at all.

He yawned again, and gave up the unequal battle with exhaustion. It was as if all reason had been leached from his thoughts; all reason, all clarity drained away.

Carlyle pushed a wayward strand of hair from where it was falling into Sharpe's clouding eyes. "Go to sleep."

Giving up, Sharpe nodded. There was no energy left to argue. Not now. Not when the world was clean and without pain, and when confusion and worry could be gladly consigned to tomorrow.

As he watched, Carlyle closed his eyes and seemingly without any preparation was asleep.

Balanced on the edge between waking and oblivion, Sharpe watched his still face, seeing for the first time that he was younger than he looked, younger than his experience allowed. In the pallor of sleep the freckles were very clear, scattering haphazardly across the strong nose, the smooth cheeks, the strength of character written in skin and bone. He tried to see the attraction, the spark that set him alight with need; but there was nothing visible to the eye, no specific beauty, no uncommon feature to fix the eye or heart. Then neither had Harper. All the women in his adult life, the ones he had been drawn to and the ones he had paid for, had been beauties of one sort or another, the men quite different. Harper and Carlyle. Harper with his gentle hands and uncanny prescience of his Captain's every need, every whim. And Carlyle...with what?

A world of possibilities - if time allowed.

Inspired by a brief moment of folly, he fought off the tenacious fingers of sleep to bend forward and lay a gentle kiss on the sleeping lips. Then laughed faintly to himself, mocking the sentiment in the freedom of silence. To be lying here, with a man who was his captor, who had almost had him killed and to be kissing him like some love-struck boy. Foolish. He should be escaping, running.

Instead, he twisted onto his side and settled his head into the pillow. He wondered if he could sleep, for despite the tiredness that dragged at every muscle, that weighed at eyes and limbs his thoughts were restless. Shifting again he sighed and then shivered as a wide hand slipped about his waist and pulled until he was set against the solid body behind him. A throaty voice whispered sleepily, "Go to sleep."

And surprising himself, he did.


	4. The darkest... maybe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> into the depths...

Harper was supervising the loading of the musket cases onto a line of pack-horses. He cursed and ordered the soldiers about, his impatience lending uncharacteristic acerbity to the few words he did choose to use.

Hogan sauntered over and watched, his hat tilted at a jaunty angle over his eyes. He waited until his countryman had a moment, then called him over.

"Sir?"

"Well, Sergeant, you're nearly ready to be off."

"Yes, sir, as soon as I can get these cases loaded properly." He broke off to shout at one of the red-coats who was fumbling awkwardly with a strap. "Jesus, you'd think they still needed their mothers to do everything for them!"

"Some of them do, Pat, some of them do."

They watched for a while, but all seemed to be going well, the shouts and noise of the camp rising and ebbing around them. In the end, Hogan shifted his weight and looked up at Harper. "I know you told us what you thought we wanted to hear, but tell me the truth." Hogan smiled. "I'm not his lordship, I won't be shocked."

"No, sir, I suppose you wouldn't. But I told you the truth, Captain Sharpe is in good spirits and can't wait to get back." Unfortunately, the slightly stoical tinge to the words gave him away.

"The truth, Pat. How's he getting on with Carlyle?"

"Well."

Hogan sighed. "Come on Pat, this is worse than drawing teeth."

"They seemed to like each other very much. Sir."

"In the way that you and Captain Sharpe like each other?"

Harper flinched.

"Don't worry yourself, I haven't told on you, and I have no intention of doing so. But it's my job to know things, so I do." He gave a shrug along with the explanation. "So do you think it was like that?"

"A bit. But more so, I think." He took a deep breath and looked every where but at the officer by his side.

"Good."

"Good!" Harper turned and glared uneasily at Hogan, comprehension gradually growing in his mind. "You mean that was what you wanted?"

"In a way."

"You bastard, you mean you've used him like a whore!" Harper hissed the words, trying to keep from shouting, from blasting his fury to the world.

"Not like a whore, come now." Hogan was unperturbed by the fury at his side. "More like bait. Sharpe can look after himself."

"Ay, he can at that. But sometimes he just doesn't care about himself." Harper remembered the strange behaviour that had been puzzling his mind ever since his precipitous removal from the stronghold. Sharpe was in too deep, he was sure of it. "And what if he's the one to be trapped, what if Carlyle has turned into the succulent morsel of bait. What if Sharpe takes a bite of that?"

"He's loyal, he'll come back."

"What if he finds something he's more loyal to than an army that treats him as nothing better than a piece of meat." Harper pressed close, his fury written clear across his wide face. "What then?"

"It won't happen. You'll be there to bring him back, won't you Sergeant?"

"You bastard!" Harper spoke the words soft and slow, imbuing them with a true depth of meaning. "What's Carlyle to you that you want him so badly?"

"Mine." Hogan tilted his hat until it was straight. "I don't let go of my people easily. Sharpe knows that." He mocked a salute with one finger, the warning as easily delivered as a threat. "Time to be off. Bring them both back for me." And he wandered off.

"And pigs might bloody well fly, you bastard." And still cursing under his breath, Harper went back to the horses, his mind full of a thousand different thoughts, none of them giving him any ease at all.

It was when he had almost finished the task of checking each and every strap that he turned away from the last pack-horse and walked straight into the Chosen Men.

"Evening, lads." Harper eyed them warily, seeing the polished rifles slung across each of their shoulders, their uniforms darkened almost to black in the growing shadows, the resolve that set each face. Trying not to sigh he picked on the one standing nearest. "Well then, Harris, what's all this then?"

Harris took a deep breath and with a quick look around at his fellow Riflemen, met Harper's eyes. "We want to come with you."

"Why's that now, think I can't manage a few horses on my own?"

"It's not the horses we're worried about." This from Hagman, the oldest of the company and by far the best shot. He stood just behind Harris, his long, lugubrious face set in lines of determination. "It's the Captain."

"We think it'd be safer if a few of us went along as insurance." Harris, the dreamer who was better educated than most officers, shuffled his feet. "In case there's any trouble."

"Lads, the trouble here started when Major bloody Hogan decided the captain was the right man for the job. He should never have gone traipsing up in the mountains at all, never mind get caught like he did. But," he picked at a splinter that had lodged in his finger, "it happened. And it's my job to go and sort it out. According to Hogan, the Spanish - or rather their bastard Englishman leader - will be honourable about this. And he's usually right, you have to give the wily old sod that."

"But what if he's wrong, what if you need help?" Harris was the one to ask, but they all nodded.

Harper looked at the men in their ragged uniforms, seeing a group who had been made more than sum of their individual abilities by the leadership of one man. It made him feel good to see how much they cared; made him proud.

"Couldn't we sort of head in the same direction? Like a sort of rear-guard." Perkins looked around, his young face twisted in concern, before his eyes ended up back on the big Irishman. "Pretend we're not really with you, but sort of be there, Sarge?"

"No lad. These bastards have the whole area covered. If you're coming, you come with me." He waited until the clamour had died down. "But not all of you. We don't want them to think we're planning an invasion." He took a deep breath and hoped that this was the right decision. "Volunteers?"

A forest of hands appeared in front of him.

"Jesus. All right, three only. You can pretend I need you to manage the horses. Hagman, I might need your skill. Cooper, come on, you contrary so-and-so, the Captain'll know he's home when he hears you griping. And Harris. Have you all sat on a horse before?"

There came a chorus of wary assent.

"Good, for though we're walking most of the way there, we might need to get away quickly. That's all. The rest of you go off and pretend you don't know what's happening."

"Sarge?"

"No Perkins. You stay here and look after Ramona. I trust you with her, make sure she's safe should anything happen."

"Yes, Sarge."

"Right then." Harper watched the grins that stuck to the faces of the men he'd chosen. "Come on, this isn't a bloody picnic, we need to be well on our way before night. Let's get moving!"

*****

Sharpe came out of a dream of absolute luxury and woke to find it come true. He stretched his limbs and sighed as the soft sheets did nothing but caress his skin. Everything was clean, his body ached less than it had since he could remember, and from somewhere the tantalising aroma of coffee was filling the air.

"Good evening."

He opened his eyes to see Carlyle standing at the side of the bed, fully dressed in dark elegance, a steaming cup held lightly between both hands. His words finally sifted through the dregs of sleep. "Good evening?"

"Mmm, we slept most of the day away."

"No wonder I feel better." Sharpe sat up carefully, but nothing twinged awkwardly. He sighed happily, stretching his spine in appreciation. "Is there some of that for me?"

"By the bed."

Sharpe reached for the indicated cup and took a sip. It was just as good as before.

"Hungry?"

Settling back against the head-board he considered. "Not yet." He was quite content, sipping the coffee, watching Carlyle.

"Nor am I." Carlyle held still for a long moment,then turned away.

Sharpe watched the easy walk, studying the way the tailored riding-clothes fitted his tall form. From boots to collar everything was darkest black, the fabric matte, reflecting no light. He looked like a sombre minister from some obscure, penitential church.

There was great pleasure to be found in watching freely, Sharpe found. Without those intense eyes fixed upon him he could learn this simple pleasure. Learn it and try not to become addicted.

Carlyle had placed his cup down on his desk and was sifting through the papers that were strewn in abundance across its surface. As Sharpe watched it became clear that this was all pretence, for almost immediately he gave in, to lean with both hands on the old wood, clearly seeing nothing of what lay in front of his eyes.

From the bed, Sharpe watched the troubled curve of spine and the tense, bunched line of shoulder, and wondered. From sudden, overwhelming happiness that had transformed so rapidly into sleep, to this. Reaching sideways he put his empty cup down on the table beside the bed, but didn't make any other move, his eyes fixed on the tall, still form that seemed to have forgotten his existence.

The capriciousness didn't confuse him, he recognised its similarity to the melancholy that on occasion marred his own thoughts and actions; though in truth, recognising the problem was not the same as solving it. He frowned, long fingers picking idly at a loose thread in the brocade cover that draped over his legs. His own fits of misery rarely lasted long, though he realised with a quick stab of guilt that the reason for their short duration was because Harper had successfully learned to banish them.

What Harper could do for him, he could certainly do for Carlyle.

Couldn't he?

There was only one way to know. Decision quickly made he threw off the covers, eased himself to his feet and slowly padded across the room, bare feet quite silent on the thick carpet, shoulders squared with all the determination of a new recruit walking into his first battle.

Not once did he question why he needed to do this. Not once. His entire being was now simply acting on instinct. An instinct he would have poured scorn upon if anyone had suggested he possessed it.

Sharpe reached Carlyle's side far too quickly. Standing close, just to the side of the tense figure, he waited. When the other man didn't move, didn't seem to even know he was there, Sharpe bit his lip. To his intense embarrassment, he felt himself flush. Wanting to walk away, needing to stay, he fought the awkwardness and touched a hand to Carlyle's sleeve. "What's the matter?"

Scarcely turning his head, Carlyle frowned. "Why?"

"You like staring at that pile of papers do you? Trying to find something you lost last Easter?" There was a barely discernable pause and a slightly more audible change of tone. "Do you want to come back to bed?"

Returning from the distant parts he had been staring into, Carlyle frowned and clearly didn't believe the evidence of his own ears. "I'm sorry?"

"Bed. I thought you might like to come to bed. With me." He defined the statement in case there was any doubt.

"With you?" Distracted, Carlyle didn't seem to be coping very well with the conversation.

"Ay." Sharpe cleared his throat and tried to consider his nakedness an asset. Seduction wasn't nearly as easy as it looked. He shrugged, "I thought it might help."

Carlyle appeared to catch up. "Oh, it would. But in what way exactly might you mean?"

"Well..." About to attempt an necessarily awkward explanation of Harper and his varied skills, and how an interpretation of them might apply to this particular situation, Sharpe caught the glint of humour in the warm brown eyes. "You bastard." He grinned ruefully.

"No, many things but not that." Carlyle straightened and smiled without counterfeit. "That's the kindest offer I've ever been made. Thank you. But I promise you I'll be fine." He ran an eye down the naked body that he suddenly seemed to see clearly. "Not that I'm not tempted..."

"Well then." Sharpe ran his hand down until it rested awkwardly in larger fingers. Curious to know that this was the first time he had ever held hands with another man; held hands as if with a woman. In many ways it was far more intimate than sex. "I was only trying to..."

"I know very well what you were trying to do." Carlyle moved until he stood within the circle of Sharpe's breathing. "But you don't have to use yourself as medicine for my ills." He sighed, tightening the grip of his hand. "I want you too much to just use you, I found that out last night."

Sharpe thought of Harper and the countless times he had fallen willingly into the strength and oblivion to be found in those arms. He frowned. Had that been one-sided? The question worried at him. "It can't be using me if I offer myself, surely?"

"Do you want to lie with me, now this moment?"

"I could."

Carlyle took hold of Sharpe's arms, near to the elbows, to draw him close. "You could." He breathed in the smell of clean sweat and could have easily been seduced back to between the sheets. Instead he asked, "Is that enough?"

"It always has been."

"And so for me. But this is different. Think about it. I want more from you than your body, and I think you want the same of me." He held very still, very intense, a single line deepening between the straight line of his brows. "I tried not to watch you when you slept. I left you to see to various things; I went and talked to my men, checked on the wounded, almost went to count supplies, yet all I could think about was you. I came back and you were still sleeping; I could have taken you there and then. I wanted to." He ran a finger over the arching, elegant line of bones that caged Sharpe's throat, feeling warmth and life and the insistent beat of blood that ran close to the fine skin. He murmured, almost as if to himself, in an aside to the air and the angels, "I could touch you forever."

Sharpe sighed in confusion. "Then lie with me."

"I will. Later." He found a scar and rubbed a finger against it. "There is no need to hurry anything."

Except I have to return to the British lines. Except that this is all we have. But Sharpe held the thoughts to himself, trusting in the other's judgement, knowing his own to be clouded, unsafe. "What then?"

"We talk. Perhaps we eat." Languid, soft as the oldest silk, Carlyle's voice transformed such mundane matters into errantry and adventure.

Sharpe gasped as a sure hand touched his breast, skimming over his nipple to leave it standing in a small hard bud. Finding a breath of air he asked huskily, "I thought we were going to talk?"

"We are. But that doesn't mean we can't think about other things."

"Doesn't it?" And before the other man had time to react, Sharpe had him pushed against the wall and was soundly kissing his about to protest mouth. After a moment Sharpe backed off slightly, his hand still keeping the strong body still. They were both aroused, Carlyle so obviously so that Sharpe grinned wickedly. "There, that should remind you." Letting go he turned and walked back towards the bed. "I'll get dressed then." And without further preamble he picked up the breeches that were draped over the end of the bed and began to slip into them.

Carlyle strangled on five different things to say. In the end he gave up and laughed, a real belly-laugh that had him leaning weakly against the wall as reflex tears ran down his cheeks.

Caught by surprise, Sharpe turned and watched the unlikely sight, his brows raising until they almost disappeared, for of all the things this man had seemed capable of, helpless mirth had not seemed one of them.

In the end, Carlyle wiped his eyes on the back of one hand, and tried to sober himself. He steadied slowly, though a wide grin stayed firmly attached to his face. Finally he stepped away from the support of the wall and weakly sat down on a corner of the desk, sighing as he did so.

"Better?" Sharpe asked.

"Much, thank you."

And he did indeed look as if some strain had been washed away by the laughter. Sharpe hesitated, then stayed where he was, finishing the fastening of his breeches.

Somewhere, the day had disappeared. The sun had vanished behind the high stone wall of the fortress, leaving the room in muted shadow. It was not quite dusk, not quite day. Sounds filtered in from the courtyard; the chatter of men and women talking, of occasional laughter. From the air came the distant noise of various birds vociferously saluting the arrival of evening.

Sharpe stood quite still to breath in the peace. And suddenly knew himself to be content.

Without design his eyes strayed to Carlyle.

And hurriedly he turned back to the bed, frowning at the shirt still draped over its foot-board. Picking it up, he ran it through his hands, the clean, white fabric flowing like a river around his fingers. In all his life he had never worn clothes as rich as these. The garment was so different from the patched and grey excuse for a shirt that he habitually wore under his uniform that it was hard to believe both were basically the same; both clothing.

"Put it on, it won't bite."

Deaf to his companion's approach, Sharpe started, turning his head with a small sound of surprise. Carlyle was at his side. He appeared to be intent.

"I was going to."

"Then stop playing with it and put it on."

Sharpe paused, but his only reply was to slip the billowing folds over his head. He pushed his arms through, emerging slightly flushed, trying not to react as the sensuously heavy fabric settled around him in a whispering slide of silk against skin. Concentrating, he began to button the cuffs, then silently relinquished the task when his fingers were brushed away and Carlyle took over, slowly fastening the buttons, smoothing the fall of ruffle with its narrow banding of lace over the warmth of skin.

Sharpe moved his head, feeling the unfastened collar high against the back of his neck, aware of the deep opening at the front where, for want of stud or stock, it fell open almost to his belly.

He looked at Carlyle, who only reached up to smooth the back of his fingers across the elegant line where folds fell from the straight set of shoulder.

Sharpe tried not to shiver. "I'd feel better in my uniform."

"Better?" Carlyle raised a brow. "Really?"

"Well, maybe not better. More at home." He cleared his throat. "More me."

Carlyle half closed his eyes and considered, tilting his head slightly back to observe more clearly the man before him. "You look very well to me. Nobody would guess that you weren't born to wear the finest silks."

"Don't make me laugh!" Sharpe bent his head, his fingers plucking at the shirt. "Besides, I know I wasn't."

"Does that matter? Why shouldn't you get accustomed to such frivolities, tell me that?"

"I don't know." I just can't...

A light breeze came in through the open casement, shimmering past the wisps of vine that hung down to shade the balcony, to catch at the supple cloth, its faint breath enough to mould the silk to every hard curve and plane of Sharpe's slim body, every soft fold a stark contrast to the severity of lithe muscle.

Carlyle sighed. "I could certainly become accustomed to it. It looks a damn sight better than that rag I peeled off you the other night. What that was suited for I don't know - straining cheese maybe?" He grinned. "This on the other hand is definitely meant to be worn, and delighted in."

Sharpe found himself once again fingering the fabric, feeling the way it lay against his skin, cool and utterly sensual. It felt almost too good, as if it was an accomplice to his seduction. After this, how did you go back to sleeping on rocky ground in the rain, to never being clean, to wearing patched clothing until it fell to pieces at which point you added yet more patches? He was a soldier. A real soldier, not some primped toy in a uniform all gold-lace and bullion epaulettes, scared to step in a puddle in case dirty water muddied his stockings. This shirt belonged to that figure, not plain Captain Richard Sharpe.

"It won't change anything. It is only cloth."

Meeting Carlyle's eyes, Sharpe acknowledged his perception with a wry shrug. "Are you sure?"

"Certain."

Sharpe gave an uncomfortable laugh. "I feel stupid, worrying over some gaudy piece of French officer's uniform - if it was his."

"Most of the good things I possess are." Carlyle sat on the edge of the bed to watch as long fingers began to tuck the ends of the shirt in. "At least he'd enough money to buy more, even after I'd finished with him."

"As if that mattered to you!"

"But it did."

Sharpe glanced side-ways, his narrowed eyes betraying his disbelief. "Who are you, Robin Hood?"

"No. But I don't steal for the sake of it." He had the grace to give a rueful twist to his mouth. "At least, not very often."

Sharpe finished with his shirt-tails and decided to try and ignore what he was wearing. "I've stolen more things than I can remember."

"In the army?"

"Sometimes." He shrugged again. "Sometimes it's steal or die. But more when I was a kid. I was good at picking pockets. Got the right fingers." He waved a hand in the air. "See that, I've a long third finger. There are men who scour the streets looking for kids with just that. You see when that finger's more or less a length with the middle, the hand can be in and out of a pocket before the owner of the purse even knows it's there. You can pick pockets without it, but having this certainly makes it easier."

Carlyle examined the displayed hand carefully and indeed, the two fingers were almost of a length. In fact the whole hand was a surprise, elegant and quite graceful with long bones and strong sinews under golden skin. It was more fitting to grace a musical instrument than a sword, let alone a rifle. He tried to imagine it picking a gentleman's pocket, but shook his head. "Didn't you ever get caught?" Carlyle was clearly fascinated.

"Once or twice."

"And you've still got both hands!"

"I bargained with other assets. I was canny even then."

"You mean your body?"

"Ay. Having a nice arse got me out of trouble more than once."

"Such modesty."

Sharpe rounded on him, angered by the mocking, amused tone. "You think I wanted to live like that? To whore and cheat and steal to keep myself alive? Well, I didn't, though I learned well the lessons of the whorehouse where I was born." He glared.

"I'm sorry." The fair head tilted in acknowledgement.

"Right."

"And you have got a nice arse. I noticed it long since."

Sharpe began to reply, then, with an exasperated sigh, gave in and sat down next to the other man on the bed. "Idiot."

"No, just very observant. You've got a beautiful back as well."

"Stop it!" Sharpe was embarrassed, at sea and lost with the unlikely compliments.

"But you have, so why shouldn't I tell you so?"

Sharpe gave a helpless shrug, trying to find why, then answered. "Because I'm not a woman."

"So, only women can be told how fine they are. Mmm." He ran a finger down his thigh, considering. "No, I'm sorry, but I don't see the difference. A compliment doesn't make a catamite of you."

"I know that!" He really did have no doubt that Carlyle saw him as an equal.

"Then don't shy away from them. I'm not given to dispersing them lightly, I can promise you that."

"I believe you. But believe me when I tell you that I'm not used to receiving them."

"Not even from Harper?"

Sharpe took in a long breath, then let it out heavily. "No. Lovers talk like that - Harper and I aren't lovers."

"Yet you sleep together."

"Ay." He twisted, curling one leg onto the bed so he could rest both arms across its knee. "We do a lot of other things too, care for each other, he's even been known to sew on my buttons when they fall off. Yet he's not my mother, or my servant. He's my sergeant."

"Neatly dropped into a labelled compartment." Carlyle nodded lazily, his easy languor belying the sudden seriousness of his words. "What compartment am I in?"

"Friend." Sharpe met the intense brown eyes and smiled slowly, almost shyly. "Lover. What else I don't know. Yet."

"What else I don't care about. Lover." Carlyle tasted the word. "And we haven't even bedded together yet."

"Not yet."

They smiled together as if at a shared secret.

"But we will." Carlyle reached across the gap between them and touched the pulse that beat against the prison of Sharpe's throat. "We will..."

He moved closer, eyes, already smoky with need, fixed to where Sharpe's lips glistened wetly, just having been licked.

Then someone rapped loudly on the door.

"Tell them to go away." Sharpe didn't recognise his own voice.

"I can't." Groaning softly under his breath, Carlyle stood, and awkwardly rearranging himself as he went, walked over to the door. He disappeared for a few minutes, leaving Sharpe time to recover, before he returned with a stocky man bearing a tray. "Miguel thought I might be hungry."

"Nice of him." Sharpe sat still and watched as the dark-skinned Spaniard returned the inspection with close-faced suspicion. He was really very glad to be dressed.

"Mmm. Miguel, baja la bandeja."

The instruction was obeyed, the tray placed carefully on the bed, the dark eyes scarcely leaving Sharpe.

"Todo va bien?"

"Si." The Spaniard stood straight and finally paid his commander some attention. "Los hombres estas ceando despues de anoche, la majoria estara acostada antes del anochecer."

"Bien." Carlyle nodded. "Gracias por la camidas. Eso es todo."

Without another word, Miguel left, wiping his hands together as he went.

Sharpe watched him until the door closed. He grimaced, "I don't think he approves of me very much."

"Miguel doesn't approve of anyone very much. But he's a good man. Despite the fact that he wanted to have you killed."

"Really? What about the ransom, didn't that interest him?"

"I sometimes believe he lives only to kill. Muskets can always be obtained somehow, if you don't care where they've come from." He gave a short, exasperated sigh. "He's short tempered and nearly gave your sergeant apoplexy, but for some reason he cares for me."

"Good." Sharpe nodded, sure that Carlyle needed someone. "How did he upset Harper?"

"By hitting you when you were unconscious."

"So it was him, how charming. You know, I could get quite upset about that myself."

Carlyle moved across the two paces that lay between him and the seated man. "I stopped him."

"Thank you kindly." Sharpe gave a mocking half-salute, then met Carlyle's eyes, his thoughts toying with the strange question of how he and Harper had survived. "What did Harper do?"

"Saw sense."

"Thank Christ for that." Sharpe paused, then nodded in the direction of the departed Spaniard. "Pat didn't have a go at him?"

"Thankfully no. Especially as of all my men, Miguel has a unique way with French prisoners, which I'm sure he wouldn't mind practising on any others that might come his way. I promise, he was almost kind to you."

"Lucky me. And that's the man who worries whether you've eaten enough? Sometimes I just can't fathom people." Sharpe gave a slight shrug, dismissing the problem. "Better to have that sort on your own side, anyway."

"Indeed so. Though I must admit that he has an uncanny ability to choose exactly the wrong moment to practise looking after me." Carlyle pushed away the memory of what had been about to happen before Miguel had so precipitously put an end to it, and tutting to himself, looked at the food. "I don't suppose you're hungry?"

Sharpe grinned. "Starving, what about you?"

"The same."

"And if we don't eat now, the food'll get cold."

"So sensible." Carlyle shook his head in amazement and without further ado they set to demolishing the meal.

By the time the chicken bones had been picked clean and the bread reduced to crumbs, it was nearly dark. Taking a taper Carlyle made his way around the room to light the branch of candles that stood against the wall and the lamp that sat on his desk. Then, with a glance at Sharpe, he blew the taper out and stepped onto the balcony.

The sound of a single guitar playing quietly trickled into the room. Sharpe watched the tall, silhouetted figure, for a long moment. Unsure of quite what he was meant to do, Sharpe stood up off the bed and brushed crumbs off himself, hesitating. Then, mind made up, he walked out into the evening air.

The moon was already riding high in the sky, the swathe of night that was visible an intense indigo touched here and there with brush-strokes of moon-shadowed cloud. The heat of the day had lessened and the air ran cooly about his face, the breeze lifting the shirt momentarily away from his skin as it dusted around the balcony and the two men standing there.

His face pale against the night, Carlyle turned, and smiled. "I love this part of the day." He tilted his head and breathed in.

"The night?" Sharpe came to stand at his side and he also looked up into the heavens, watching the slow procession of the clouds, seeing behind the banks of darkness the silver-lining he'd once stared at from the gutter and believed was real.

"This quiet; when the day is over and the night not quite begun."

"Are you a poet?"

"No. Though that doesn't mean I can't still enjoy this."

Sharpe stood still, letting the stillness and the strange content that filled the air seep into his bones. He listened to the guitar playing softly, to the muted sound of voices. Things would be much the same back at his own camp, the slow settling of men to sleep, the prowl of sentries, the peace that was so rarely found in a soldier's life. "You should have seen the nights in India, the sky would turn so blue it hurt to look on it. Sometimes you could hear tigers roaring up in the hills, the sound enough to raise the hairs on the back of your neck."

"Did you fight there?"

Sharpe laughed. "I've fought bloody everywhere. I went expecting England full of folk with dark skin." He shook his head at his own naivety. "It was so different."

"Did you like it? Was it like here, like Spain?"

"It was nothing like here, and I hated it. The heat was incredible, and the flies and the bugs that ate you alive." He turned sideways, resting an arm on the ornate balcony, feeling the roughness of the stone under his fingers, feeling the warmth still held there from the hours in sun. "I spent a long time in a dungeon belonging to this bastard Sultan Tippoo. There were no tigers there - only the screams of men being tortured. No, I didn't like it much."

Carlyle made a soft sound in the back of his throat and reached out to cover the uneasy fingers with his own.

"But I'd made up my mind to be a soldier." Sharpe ran his tongue quickly over his lips. "So I didn't complain. And in the end I killed that fat Sultan."

They stood in silence until the remembering made Sharpe queasy. Then he looked at Carlyle and gave half-hearted smile. "Spain's better."

"Good."

Sharpe felt a realisation fall neatly into place. "You love it here, don't you?"

"Yes. I've found more peace here than I ever knew in England. From the food to the music, to the people..." Carlyle shrugged. "I fit in here."

Sharpe remembered Theresa, the wife he had loved and who had been murdered here. She had been everything that was good about Spain, with her Hidalgo blood and her absolute hatred of the French, her beauty and her loyalty. If she was still alive... Sharpe pushed the thought away. There was no going back. And had she lived, well then there might have been difficulties. Sharpe tried to imagine her, La Aguja, the woman who killed as easily as she breathed, settling down to a life of genteel poverty in cold, distant, demure England. He couldn't do it. Though of course he might have stayed here with her. Lived in Spain. For her he might have done it.

Maybe also for Carlyle.

He shied away from that thought, asking, "Will you never go home?"

"And give up this?" Carlyle breathed in a heady lungful of the exotic air. Though the guitarist had long since quietened and the darkness took away all but outline, there was no doubt that this place was foreign, that it was a world away from the provincial island he had been born on. He smiled, "I don't think Bond Street would be quite as exciting as I used to think."

"Maybe when all this is over we'll have had enough excitement."

"Is that your dream, Richard, that you can put a lifetime of fighting behind you and become, what, a farmer?"

"Something, I don't know what. Not that there's anything else but soldiering I'm any good at."

With a sudden look of intense longing, Carlyle went to speak, but he stopped himself and turned his face into the shadow. After a while he gave a little shake as if clearing his head and turned back, letting his hand fall to his side. "It's late, I'd better do the rounds, make sure everything is all right. I won't be long." He cleared his throat. "Will you wait for me?"

"Where would I go? I don't suppose your men would think kindly of me walking out of here."

"No, and neither would I, though for entirely different reasons." Carlyle's voice was deep and low, suddenly as fluid and seductive as the melancholy song that still carried through both their thoughts. "Wait for me?"

"Ay."

They met, hands linking again, the night taking their closeness and making of it one outline, one shadow. Then Carlyle turned on his heel and was gone, leaving more than a little disquiet in his wake.

*****

"Sarge, are they watching us yet?"

"Harris, how in God's own name am I supposed to know that?"

"I just thought..."

"Harris."

"Yes, Sarge?"

"Keep an eye on where you're putting your feet and don't ask stupid questions."

"Yes, Sarge."

"Told you." Dan Hagman's words came from further back, his soft Cheshire voice almost cheerful.

"But I just thought he might know."

"How could he?"

"Will you two be quiet! It's bad enough not being able to see more than a few yards, without you two going on like a couple of fish-wives." Harper grunted in disgust. He was worried, certain that they'd have to stop soon, but more than needing to press on. The sooner he got the muskets to the Spanish, the sooner Sharpe would be home. He had thought a lot over what Hogan had said and was sure his captain wouldn't go native. Certain. Sharpe was too loyal. Too damn sensible for such a quixotic gesture to appeal. What the presence of Carlyle would do to the equation he wasn't so sure of. He hadn't liked the Englishman one bit.

If only Sharpe had felt the same.

Harper sighed again. A straight battle was so much simpler to deal with than this.

He trudged on, cursing the night, the terrain and the complication of having a man like Hogan to deal with. Then he tripped over a large rock he'd completely failed to see, only just managing to keep both feet under him. It was the last straw. Irritation at it all making his usually soft voice terse, he called out. "Christ in heaven! We'll have stop here. I suppose Mister Sharpe wouldn't be too happy if any of this flea-bitten lot broke a leg. And I meant the nags."

His nervous mood eased by the laughter that greeted this sally, Harper pulled on the reins and stood still. Just at that moment the moon emerged clear from behind a bank of cloud, her face bright in the expanse of cloud- and star-strewn sky.

"Well, will you look at that." Suddenly the landscape was quite clear in front of them. Coolly shadowed and quite leeched of colour, it even showed him he was still on course, something that had been a concern for the past few hours. He turned and grinned at his men. "There, anyone still want to stop?"

A chorus of voices all saying no was the answer.

"Good. Let's get on then."

From behind him, the words carrying on the clear night air came Harris' voice. "They'll see us better now the moon's out. Dan, what if they just decide to steal the guns and be done with it?"

"Harris," Harper was the one who answered. "You could have been strangled at birth as a mercy by your mother but you weren't."

"I know that, Sarge. But I wouldn't have known about that, this is..."

"Harris, you know your trouble? You think too much. Try concentrating on the matter in hand."

It was something they'd all have to do. If they were to get out of this alive. And with the captain.

Harper shook his head at the sky and gave a tug on the reins, cursing softly as the horse tossed its head in objection. "Come on you brute," he muttered, "you'll be all right when we get there." And he heaved, forcing the reluctant animal to move forward.

*****

Lamp in one hand, jacket tossed over one arm, Carlyle was cursing as he ran up the wide stairs two at a time. Water dripped from his hair where he hadn't given himself time to dry it and his clothing was quite disarrayed, all because of his haste to return to his room and its occupant.

Having intended to merely give a cursory glance to all but the most pressing needs of his men, he'd ended up watching one of the most badly hurt of the wounded die. The man had taken a bayonet in the belly and by all rights shouldn't have lived longer than a few hours let alone dragged on until today. No more than seventeen, the child of murdered parents, he'd looked up to Carlyle in a way that was almost idolatry. And not even the thought of Sharpe waiting for him could bring his commander to leave until the hard dying was over.

Blood clinging to his hands, sweat plastering his clothes to his skin, shaking, Carlyle had taken himself out to the pump and stripped naked, dousing himself with the ice-cold water until a semblance of cleanliness stripped the worst of the helplessness from him. The death of his own people was always hard to take. This one as bad as any.

In the quiet fortress, in the darkness, illuminated by the light from a single lamp, he'd wanted to howl at the moon, wanted to find a Frenchman and do the same to him; to take a life in reparation for the one lost.

Instead, he'd stepped back into his breeches and walked inside, away from the night.

By the time he reached his own room he was breathing fast, and fresh sweat had started to mix with the damp that was still gathered, undried, in folds of his skin. With a terse nod to the man guarding his door, he stepped inside, fastening the lock behind him with an overwhelming feeling of coming home. Of safe-haven found.

The lamp on the table was still burning, but with surprise he saw that all the candles had guttered. He wondered how long he'd been away.

Too long, for half-curled on the bed lay the object of his obsession, fast asleep. Tossing his coat onto the chair, he went and stood by the bed, his lamp running the shadows before him, catching gold into the tangle of hair that lay unconsidered across the sleeping man's forehead.

Carlyle smiled, though it was spoiled by a yawn that followed immediately in its wake. "Sharpe?" He whispered, unsure if he wanted to wake the other man or not, torn between exhaustion and desire. "Richard..."

There was no response and, with a resigned sigh, he stripped off the remainder of his clothes, turning down the lamps before sliding carefully into the bed. After all, there would be other nights, other wakings, now that Sharpe was with him to stay. He shivered as the sleeper moved and almost awoke. Curling against the unresisiting warmth Carlyle ran a comforting hand along the nearest flank, whispering nothings as he did so, waiting until the breathing steadied once more.

So much for seduction. He gave a silent, wry laugh to the shadows.

And the muskets would be delivered tomorrow. Today.

The realisation almost made him wake his companion, but he didn't, not sure if there was energy in him to make anything of the occasion. The mind was all too willing, but he had a notion that his body was entertaining other ideas.

He yawned again.

And was asleep even before he'd finished considering what Sharpe would do if he woke him.

*****

Sharpe awoke with the unmistakeable feel of an erect cock pressing into the curve of his arse. He smiled sleepily and turned.

"You came back, then."

"And you waited."

"Told you I would."

"Do you always keep your promises?"

"Always."

They lay for a moment, wrapped in warmth and content; a sea of tranquillity in the ocean of the world. Then Carlyle shuddered as a sure hand took gentle hold of him.

"I wanted this last night."

"So did I." Carlyle's agreement was heartfelt. He closed his eyes and gasped softly as the exploring fingers pressed knowingly against his balls, leaving them tight-drawn with need. He whispered, unsure of his voice: "And I think I still do."

"That's all right then." Sharpe ran his fingers up the length of shaft that pressed between them and smiled.

Carlyle was already past such niceties, emotion a turmoil in the dark reaches of his eyes. "Richard..." He arched forward, seeking friction, pressure, anything, all the turmoil of the past few days suddenly boiling in his blood. Blind, he opened his mouth to Sharpe's reaching lips, swallowing the kiss, gulping it down with all the greed of a man starved. He ran his hands through hair the colour of wheat lying rain-wet in an English field, clutched at the shape of bone, hard beneath skin. His mouth was stretched wide as if to take in whole the other face, to cannibalise it, to take the soul through the willing mouth. He was gasping as if mortally wounded, pushing every inch of body to meet the other flesh, wanting without reason, a fool out of time.

For Sharpe, it could have been himself. Remembering that, he laid himself open to every advance, seeking only to give pleasure, to allay the terrible fear that underpinned this act of love. He kissed, and without thought echoed the thrusts that slammed him into the bed. When the resistance was not enough he curved his hands around the firm arse and pulled, adding his strength to the unmeasured passion. A part of him watched from a distance, adding each strangled groan to the tally of remembrance, noting every drop of sweat, every tight-drawn muscle, every clutch of white-boned fingers to the disordered sheets. Part of him watched, but mostly he revelled in the slide of sweat dampened bodies, in the immeasurable need that drove the man in his arms to such intemperate lengths.

He wanted a mirror, a mirror high above them so he could watch more clearly. Watch the play of muscles in the strong back, the shadows that would curve into the tight buttocks. One day. One day he would watch this, but then instead of the clumsy push of cock against cock, and cock against belly, Carlyle would be fucking him.

The thought made him convulse with desire, a quick contraction of all his muscles that made Carlyle, in desperate thrall, throw his head back in ecstasy and cry out in short gasping sighs as he came, the heat spilling between their bodies like breath coalescing on a winter's day.

For a man who, to the world, had taken no pleasure, Sharpe lay under the weight of his lover and smiled with remarkable contentment. Lightly stroking his fingers through strands of soft hair that curled onto his own shoulder, he closed his eyes and breathed in the moment. All he could smell was Carlyle. All he could taste, touch, see; was.

All he could desire.

In the moment of peace, he knew beyond doubt that this feeling, whatever it was, had never been in him before. Never. Not with Harper. Not even with Theresa.

The realisation shook him to the foundations of all he believed.

But, stranger still, he found he wasn't frightened. Not of himself, not of the future. To have known this once was almost enough. To have known it at all was a gift from the gods; gods who had in all his life rarely shown themselves benign to Richard Sharpe.

He put his arms around the wide shoulders and rested his head for few seconds on the sweat-damp hair, holding tight, taking the sum of the moment and storing it away.

Then Carlyle lifted his head. He was quite sane again; his eyes unclouded, the piercing intelligence no longer hidden by anger or need.

"Good morning."

In answer the deep, honey-rich voice was not quite as smooth as usual. "Good morning." Carlyle swallowed hard, then at once realised where he was lying and slid sideways until the bulk of his weight rested on the bed and not on Sharpe. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For not being able to wait for you."

"Am I complaining?"

"Are you?"

"No."

Carlyle considered, then levering himself onto one elbow he frowned at the relaxed sprawl next to him. "Why not?" He reached with his free hand and felt with strange familiarity the curve and warmth and texture of a groin like and yet unlike his own. There was some arousal, but no desperate need.

"Because it was enough. For now, you understand." Sharpe grinned.

"For now?"

"Mmm. When you get your breath back we'll be more even. Take our time about it."

"But..."

"Besides," Sharpe interrupted. "I'm quite happy, just like this." And quite ridiculously, he was.

They settled and lay still together, legs partially woven around each other, fingers stroking idly where they fell just for the indolent luxury of touch. Lying enclosed in a silence that permitted no knowledge of the future, no remembrance of the past.

His blood still fired with the edge of desire, Sharpe wanted this to go on forever. The need in him was so sweet, so completely hinged on this man that it was almost as if his own satisfaction was unimportant, a secondary element to their union. It was madness, of course, and would soon pass. But for the moment he stroked his hand along hot skin and wanted this to last forever.

Then the silence was shattered by a fist banging on the door.

Carlyle sat up in the bed and shouted. The sound stopped.

Sharpe watched the ruffled composure affectionately, trying not to smile.

"Damn them, can't they do anything without me!"

"You wouldn't want them to."

Carlyle turned at the reasonable tone, bridling. Then he relaxed and sighed agreement. "No. Though at this moment I'd rather stay here."

"Go and be a good officer. I'll wait." Harper wouldn't be here for hours, maybe not until the afternoon. He found himself hoping for the evening because that would mean another night here, but knew that was only wishful thinking. Harper would be here as soon as he could. And then this would be all over.

The knowledge was remarkably depressing.

Carlyle paused, looking down, meeting eyes changeable as the sea in autumn. "Richard..."

"Mmm?"

But in the end he never finished whatever he'd been about to say. Instead he shrugged, a coward for the first time in his life. "Right then, I'll be back as quick as I can." With a gentle kiss to Sharpe's mouth he stepped out of bed, putting on the first clothes that came to hand. Then, decent in breeches, boots and shirt, he went to leave.

Sharpe's voice stopped him with a hand poised on the door-handle. "Carlyle?"

"Mmm?"

"I just wondered if you answered to the name." He shrugged. "It's daft, but I don't know what to call you."

"My father called me James, my mother, Jamie. I've been Philip, once even William, though I never liked that much or thought it suited me." Carlyle pondered the matter, then gave up. "Call me what you want."

"There's temptation..."

"Within the bounds of reason and decency, naturally!"

"James... Jamie." Sharpe sat up and frowned. "I think of you as Carlyle."

"Well, you've proved I answer to it."

"Ay. That I have. But I'll think about the others. And you were right about William."

"Mmm, I argued myself blue in the face with the man who chose it. Didn't get myself anywhere."

"Whoever it was, he sounds like Hogan, some people have got no idea..."

Sharpe was lying down again, his eyes away from the other man so he missed the passage of emotions across the strong features. Carlyle hurriedly turned to the door and opened it. "I'll be back soon as I can." And was gone.

Sharpe stretched, easing kinks out of his muscles before relaxing back with a sigh, wondering idly what it would be like to wake in this bed every day.

And sat up in near horror. How could he be even contemplating staying here? He had a life - the army. An army Carlyle was trying quite successfully to disrupt.

Not that he'd been asked to stay.

That was true.

But what if he was asked? What then?

Closing the thought away he climbed out of the sheets, standing slightly unsteadily beside the bed, fingers clutching at the foot-board. He rubbed the fingers of his free hand over his face in exasperation.

It was no good.

He found the clothes and dressed, paying them scarcely any heed, and walked out onto the balcony.

The heat hit him like a wall, the humidity springing sweat onto his skin. There was thunder in the air, clouds darkening overhead. Maybe this time it would actually rain.

There was a deal of activity in the courtyard. Horsemen were arriving and it was impossible to see clearly what was happening. Sharpe searched with his eyes, but amongst all the men there was no sign of Carlyle.

But there was Harper. A hand gripping hard at the stone balustrade, Sharpe fought with the confusion of thoughts and emotions that battled within the confines of his mind.

Harper, leading a line of horses, along with Harris and Hagman and Cooper; all come to take him home. Behind him he heard the door slam and footsteps tread determinedly across the room. He took a deep breath and turned, just as Carlyle stepped through onto the balcony, his face shuttered, grim.

"Your ransom is here."

"I can see."

"They must have travelled through the night, there was moon enough if they were pressed."

"Harper can be very determined."

"So can I. What do you want? Will you stay with me, stay here, or, if you'd prefer, we could go back to England?"

The question took Sharpe's breath away. He looked around in something akin to pain, seeing the stones and the vine that draped from the roof to lend beauty to the wilderness, seeing the shored up ruin and the wild romance that had brought an Englishman here.

As if from another world he could hear Harper arguing with Carlyle's men over the cases of muskets, he was pushing one of the bandits away from a pack-horse. The sky had darkened and, apart from the voices, there was silence; no birds sang, the air holding utterly still.

"Richard!"

Sharpe returned with a shudder and remembered where he was. He stared wide-eyed at the only person he had ever truly wanted and shook his head.

Carlyle swallowed, speaking slowly, almost as if against his will. "I need you, stay."

Sharpe bent his head, unable to make himself meet the pain that had narrowed his companion's eyes. He took a deep breath, consternation making him brief: "No, I can't."

"You must!" Carlyle took a half-step forward, his austere face showing something akin to pain. "I love you..."

Sharpe dug his fingers into stone. "Carlyle...Jamie." He looked up. "Can't you see, what have I got if I leave the army? Nothing."

"Nothing? You'll have me, I've money enough for whatever you need, more than enough. Richard..."

"It's not money!" Sharpe was pleading for understanding. "Money means nothing, I need..." He struggled to find the words that would translate the need he knew drove himself. "I need to be my own man."

"But I don't want to own you. I want you to be my equal, in everything."

"Then let me go."

They stood in silence.

"You don't mean it." Carlyle tilted his head, his eyes narrowed with disbelief.

"I'm sorry." Wretched, Sharpe released his hold on the security of the balcony and straightening his shoulders looked directly at Carlyle. He looked wary, confused. Completely without his usual shield of arrogance. Sharpe went to him. "You must believe me, I'd stay if I could."

"Then stay, we'll make it possible."

"I can't!" Sharpe was almost pleading to be understood.

There was chaotic emotion clouding over the suddenly bone-white skin. "You lied." It was a statement; implacable.

Sharpe shook his head. "I never promised anything."

Fierce eyes raised, dark with betrayal and anger. "You lied."

"Jamie..."

Carlyle hit him, hard, the fisted blow sending Sharpe reeling into the wall. "Don't call me that." He was breathing as if he'd climbed too close to the sun, the air thinning around him. "Don't you dare call me anything."

Dazed, Sharpe pushed away from the stone and wearily gave a small movement of despair. "I'm sorry."

"Liar. Bastard."

Each cold word made Richard Sharpe flinch. There was a hollowness in his gut that made staying upright hard. Guilt, layered with remorse, weighed him down, made him want to crawl and beg to be allowed to stay. But there was no other answer. He couldn't stay. How could he?

"I'd better go."

The only answer was a terse nod and Carlyle was past him, heading at speed for the door. Sharpe followed him out of the room, along the hallway, down the wide, rotting stair-well, though never once was his presence even noted by anyone but the guards.

Sharpe slowed as they emerged into the open air, his eyes immediately seeking Harper. There was a solidity to underpin the chaos. There.

Then Harper was at his side. "Morning, sir. A fine day it is."

"Yes, Pat." He spoke to Harper, wanted to leave with Harper, had to. But despite his best intentions, Sharpe's eyes dragged towards the tall, angry man who talked on one side with his officers.

"I waited to make sure you were safe before unpacking the muskets."

"Well done, Sergeant."

"Thank you, sir." Harper eyed his officer with disquiet, not at all keen on his shadowed expression or the fact that he was clearly none too ready to leave. "Do they have the rest of your clothes?"

Sharpe looked down as if realising for the first time he was barefoot, or that the thin silk of the evening clothes was hardly suitable for travelling across rough terrain. "I don't know." He shook himself. "It doesn't matter. Are you ready?"

"Ask him." Harper nodded to Carlyle.

"You do it." And Sharpe turned away, heading towards the horses and the small group of green-jacketed Riflemen.

Harper didn't need to, for Carlyle was already walking towards him. He stared the Irishman straight in the eye, and Harper felt a shadow pass over the sun. He fought the instinct to cross himself.

Carlyle, cold as winter, spoke, "We'll need to count the muskets, make sure we're not being short-changed."

"Yes, sir." Harper called across, "Cooper, Harris, get the cases unloaded and open them up." He turned back. "There you are."

"Good." And the Englishman was away, giving orders himself to as surly a group of ruffians as Harper had set eyes on this side of Dublin bay.

It was halfway through the counting that Harper knew that something was amiss. He'd paid little attention to what the Spanish were doing, his mind too concerned with the shell of quiet and misery that surrounded his captain, holding him distant from everything that was going on.

That was all changed by a single shout. One of the Spanish men was showing a musket to Carlyle, talking in a long, clearly outraged speech that had all his fellows in a stir. Harper walked slowly over to one of the open cases and picked up a gun. And cursed under his breath.

He was backing towards the horses when Carlyle's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Did you think we wouldn't notice, was that it?"

"No." Harper shook his head, knowing he wouldn't be believed. "I didn't know."

"Fuck it." Carlyle threw the useless musket onto the ground. "I suppose this is down to Hogan. One hundred new muskets, not one of which will work. The bastard."

"Maybe the firing pins are packed separately."

"I really don't think that likely." The words were bitten off, hard and unforgiving as forged steel. "Perhaps he wants me to kill your captain." Carlyle was rigidly controlled, his anger forcing colour into the pallor of his skin. "Perhaps that's it."

Quite suddenly, Harper was frightened. "Let me search for them."

Dark eyes met his and the smile that stretched across Carlyle's face gave anything but reassurance. "Very well. Search."

Harper did. With the other Riflemen he scrabbled through every scrap of straw, every corner of every case. There were no firing pins. Harper wondered what it would feel like, to be hung for killing Hogan. If he ever got back to make the attempt, that was.

Carlyle was no longer even pretending to smile, and his men were slowly surrounding the small party of British soldiers.

"It must be a mistake, I'll get the pins, I..."

"Be quiet."

The soft, drawling voice silenced Harper more effectively than a parade-ground bellow. Faced with a man turned to fire and ice he stood and knew that he would never have a chance to kill Hogan. There was no way any of them were stepping out of this fortress alive. A gun appeared at his side, pointed unwaveringly at his head.

"Go over and stand with your fellows."

Feet dragging, Harper went.

"Captain Sharpe, perhaps you would do me the honour of stepping forward."

Ignoring Harper's hand as it reached out to try and stop him, Sharpe faced the inevitable and walked evenly forward. The dust and broken stones of the gound were warm under his feet, and far in the distance a bird was singing sweetly. He walked as if he was alone, head high, easy. Then he halted before Carlyle, a slim, barefoot figure, quite alone.

"I should kill you." Carlyle took a deep breath. "But I find I cannot. So, you see, you make me break my word as well."

Sharpe blinked in confusion. He'd expected to die.

"But I also cannot just let you go. Hogan thinks me weak enough - fool enough - as it is. So, what shall I do with you?"

"He doesn't think you..."

Sharpe was silenced by a stinging slap across his face.

"Don't try and tell me what he thinks!" Carlyle moved very close, closer. "I don't believe you, remember? I know that you lie."

Sharpe nodded, knowing that to argue would be useless. He could smell the familiar sweat that darkened Carlyle's clothing, see the gold that faceted the deep brown eyes, the madness that burned like poison deep in their heart. Suddenly, he knew that whatever was going to happen, death might considered preferable after all.

He shuddered then, when Carlyle kissed him. The light brush of lips against his own a knife wound that cut to the bone; a hook in the gut that twisted. He tried to pull away but a hand tied itself into his hair and stopped that.

He held very still, sweating.

Carlyle smiled slowly.

And turned away, speaking quickly.

Sharpe found himself taken between strong hands and man-handled to the side of the courtyard, suddenly disoriented he stumbled, but stayed upright. Harper was calling out to him, but there was no sense to the words, no sense to anything, because all of a sudden he knew what Carlyle was going to do. The one thing they both feared most.

He fought. All the way to being bound to the whipping-post, all the while they forced his hands high above his head, he fought. Though he ended up where they wanted him, as he had known in the ashes of his soul that he would.

He was shivering, knowing what was to come even before Carlyle walked slowly into the circle of his vision, the long whip held gracefully between his hands. He said nothing, though to his captive the blankness behind his eyes was enough.

Sharpe licked his dry lips and tried to say something, but his throat was tight-closed on any words. Eyes blind, he leant his head against the wood, trying hard to control his breathing, failing. Hands were at his back and he almost cried out in shock when his shirt was cut unceremoniously from his body, the knife cold, sharp against his skin.

Tossing the rags of silk to the ground, Carlyle stepped very close. He ran the back of one finger down Sharpe's face, taking the ill-concealed dread to himself. Carlyle nodded in approval when the narrowed eyes met his own, seeing the change in their colour, as if all the green had been stolen away and replaced with a grey the exact shade of fear. He licked his own lips in an echo, holding the moment between them; the dread, the knowing. He almost smiled, though the expression was still-born. His lip quirked instead. "At least this way you won't forget me."

Sharpe shook his head, his voice quite painfully unsteady. "I wouldn't have."

"Oh, but you might. You might be fickle as well as a liar and a bastard."

Sharpe closed his eyes, denying the accusations with silence.

"Remember."

The word rang around the hollow silence in Sharpe's head, and he knew that Carlyle had moved away, that it was going to begin and there was not one thing he could do to stop it. Hating the fear that shivered through him, clutching at the cords that bound him, he waited.

And waited.

Then there was no more waiting to be done.


	5. Homeward bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end of the first part

*****

Sometime over the past little-while it must have begun to rain. Sharpe stared at the rain-drops that kicked up dust from the ground in front of his face and was thankful, for if it was raining then it would become cooler. Maybe cool enough to quench the fire that seemed to have replaced his body.

He frowned at the thought. He couldn't remember. Anything, not really. He wasn't even sure why he was lying face down on the ground.

His hand was lying in front of his face and he stretched out a finger to rub it against a droplet of water. The skin around his wrist was raw, bleeding; he frowned again, though without much curiosity.

His senses began to work singly, without very much urgency. After sight came smell and he nearly vomited at the familiar, slaughter-house stink of blood. Unfortunately feeling followed hard on the heels of the rest.

He tried to move, to turn over, and the flood of too familiar pain shocked his memory into life. He lay on his side and panted, letting the rain cool his face and stillness take some of the agony away from his back.

Carlyle.

He slowly lifted his head and searched around, the ring of spectators as motionless as a tableau. Carlyle was standing quite still, the whip curled bloodily in his hands. He was staring at the ground.

Setting his teeth and sure that he could do it, Sharpe dragged himself until he was partially propped against the darkened wood that had supported him while he screamed. He placed a hand against its roughness and waited.

Blinking against the few rain-drops that battered at his eyes, he watched as Carlyle looked up, and throwing the whip to one side, walked slowly towards where he sprawled. Carlyle crouched down. Sharpe tried not to flinch when a large hand took hold of his face, forcing their eyes to meet. There were specks of blood on Carlyle's skin and on the white of his shirt where they must have spattered off the whip. The scarlet was running in the rain, streaking the pale skin, darkening the shirt.

"Are you alive?"

Sharpe found a voice, a mere thread but it served. "Ay."

"Then you won't forget." The fingers dug to the bone.

Sharpe could have laughed, given strength. Or cried.

Carlyle nodded. "I'll remember as well. Every time I'm happy. Good bye."

And he was on his feet, turning, calling out as he walked away, his footsteps taking him inside without a single glance over his shoulder.

Rain was stinging Sharpe's eyes when a gentle hand commanded his attention. "Richard! Sir?"

"Pat." Sense. Stone. Reality. Sharpe clutched at Harper's fingers and closed them in his own.

"They're letting us all go, but you'll have to ride, sir."

Ride. Sharpe gave a weak protest that ended with him twisted to the ground, heaving up bile.

"Jesus." Harper eyed the ring of Spaniards who watched them without any sign of mercy and cursed. "Harris, take his other arm."

And between them they hoisted their Captain to his feet, trying to make the short journey to the horses easy. It was clear he would never be able to ride, and in the end Harper mounted the quietest of the animals, holding it still while between them Harris and Cooper awkwardly heaved the inert body in front of him. Though by then Sharpe was no longer anywhere near conscious.

Everything was soaked. Though Harper stripped off his jacket and gently covered Sharpe with it, he was sure the gesture was almost useless, as the man there couldn't get any wetter. But he could get cold. The sergeant wondered about asking for a blanket, but didn't bother, sure the request would only be laughed at.

With a click of his tongue, Harper encouraged the horse through the press of Carlyle's men, ignoring the muttered comments, the occasional curse. With the others following close behind he led the way out of the huge old gates, into the rain soaked countryside, flanked on either side by a totally unwelcome escort of armed horsemen.

The descent was the stuff of nightmares. The track was slippery with rain and the horses hooves made hard work of it. A half-dozen times he was convinced the brute was going down, but he held tight to the reins and held them up as if by force of will alone. The Spaniards on their mountain-ponies had little trouble and their taunts ran as a counterpoint to the slip and slide down the path. Harper hated every yard, would remember it as long as he lived.

Tossed across Harper's knees like a sack of grain, Sharpe faded in and out of consciousness. Harper soothed him when he tried to move, worried about him when he lay as one already dead.

By the time they reached level ground Harper was worn with anxiety. There he made a decision. Instead of heading back to camp, he made for the haunted village, for Maura. Grim and determined, his face reflecting the horror of what he had watched, he ignored the rain that plastered the ragged shirt to his chest; ignored everything but the occasional moments when Sharpe was lucid, worrying truly when he began to shiver.

The journey seemed far longer than it ever had before.

Somewhere in the foothills, the Spaniards peeled off with whoops and shouts, heading back towards home. The Riflemen shouted back, releasing some of their frustration and anger at the diminishing shapes, cursing the retreating figures as they never had been able to their faces. Waiting only until he was sure they were out of musket shot, Harper turned his face back to the west and rode steadily on.

The rain eased off sometime in the mid afternoon and a weak sun cautiously began to shine a few paltry rays on the glistening earth. They came out of the last foothills of the mountains and began the easier journey across the plain. They said almost nothing at all, their eyes fixed ahead, hardly thinking, their minds numb. In time it even stopped raining.

The village crept up on them eventually and Harper rode into its street in the late afternoon, awkwardly crossing himself, careful of reins and his officer, as he passed the mass grave. Somehow, now, the gesture was as close to prayer as he could let himself come.

They finally halted before the ruins of the church. For a long time, Harper sat in the saddle, his eyes fixed on the cross that sat mockingly atop the crumbling facade. Then he shook his head before carefully dismounting. He stood on the muddy ground and touched his hand to the matted strands of Sharpe's hair. He was still alive, still breathing. Harper took an unsteady breath, standing stiffly, his whole body groaning in protest. After a while, the others grouped round him.

Harper looked at them all, then nodded. "We'll take him in the church. It should be dry enough in there."

"Shouldn't we take him back to camp, Sarge?" Harris voiced the concern they all felt.

"Not like this. You think he'd want to ride into camp draped like a bloody sack over this old nag?" Harper's voice was tight with suppressed emotion. "Well, I don't think he would." He touched the remains of drying blood that circled one wrist and frowned. This was the right thing to do, he knew it. But there was always doubt. He sighed. "Let's get him inside. Get him cleaned up."

Hagman looked at the other two and nodded and found agreement on all their faces. He turned back to his sergeant. "Ay, well, you know him best. Shall we make a fire up?"

"Yes, you and Cooper, you see to it. Harris, you help me with the captain."

With infinite care the two men eased Sharpe from the across the horse's back. When they held him upright the weight of pain brought him close to awareness. He blinked in confusion, his dry lips cracking on a single name: "James?"

"No, sir, it's Patrick. Come on now, we'll have you nice and warm in a trice. Nice and easy now, that's it." He took one arm, Harris the other and somehow they got him inside, finding the driest part of the floor close to the desecrated altar and laying him down carefully on his belly, using their jackets to take the chill off the dusty floor. "Harris, see if you can find something we can use as a blanket. He'll need to be kept warm."

When Harris was gone, Harper sat down by his officer's side and touched him lightly on the arm.

Dull eyes slowly focused, remembered. "Pat..."

"Ay, it's me all right." Harper began to say something else, then gave in, muttering, "You're a mess, sir, if I might be saying so."

Sharpe almost smiled, his mouth twisting slightly. "Sorry."

"Don't you be apologising. It's that bastard Hogan whose fault it all is."

"He probably had his reasons."

"I did."

Harper was on his feet, a knife, his only remaining weapon, in his hand before the voice had finished echoing around the empty building.

Hogan walked from the shadows, holding his hands out before him. "I'm not armed."

"You don't need to be. Look what you did to him without even trying. Or was it that you were trying, was that it? Did you want him killed and that he's alive is an accident? Jesus, and to think you're an Irishman."

"Don't be a fool." Hogan halted by Sharpe's side and crouched down, finally meeting the narrowed eyes that were turned towards him. He gave a shrug that was more than half apology. "I didn't intend this. In fact I'm sorry."

Sharpe finally managed to sit up, though his breathing was disordered by the time he achieved his objective. He sat for a long moment with his shoulder propped against the pillar, then made a sound that was the desiccated husk of a laugh. "Why did you leave out the firing pins then, by bloody accident?"

"Did you think I would give a hundred muskets to someone as close to breaking as Carlyle is?" Hogan was earnest, almost beseeching, his words honeyed by truth. "Would you like to see them used to kill more British soldiers?"

"Then why did you say you would?" Sharpe tried to control the shivers that ran through his limbs, hating the weakness. He was held together by pure curiosity, and a strange, wayward desire to make sure that Harper didn't accidentally knife Hogan in the back.

"Well, I was sure you'd have him wrapped around your little finger after a day or so. I was wrong - a mistake I regret." The soft Irish voice almost sounded pitiful. "But you see I want him back; he's one of mine."

"You bastard! One of yours?" Sharpe began to laugh weakly, then curled in on himself as the pain in his back suddenly burned too bright.

"Come on." Hogan was at his side, fingers chill on the heated skin of Sharpe's arm. "Lie down, I've stuff in my pack to clean you up."

"So you expected this?" Harper crossed his arms; the knife was tucked away but its absence did nothing to make him look less dangerous. Every muscle promised just tolerance, not forgiveness.

"No." Hogan looked up, his expression open. "But I do like to be prepared. Come on Richard, lie down."

At that moment, with a clatter of booted feet, Harris and the other two appeared at the door, their surprise at the sight meeting their eyes closer to shock. "Major Hogan!"

"Yes, lads, it's me. You can save the greetings for later." Hogan glanced at Harper's set face. "Much later."

Harper turned as the men walked up the aisle. "Did you find anything dry enough to burn?"

"Yes, Sarge. Cooper even found this..." It was a ragged blanket. "God knows how clean it is, but we though it'd be better than nothing."

Harper took hold of it and nodded. "Well done. Now get the fire going." His eyes slid to where Sharpe lay, half curled upon himself. "We haven't got all day."

"There, you'll be warm in a trice." Hogan was reaching for the jacket that was still swathing the ruin of Sharpe's back, but a hand stopped him. He met slitted eyes that glinted green eyes, and lifted a brow. "I'm only going to clean you up, Richard, nothing else."

Sharpe was shaking his head. "No, Harper'll do it."

"But..."

"No!"

After a long breath, Hogan backed off, letting Sharpe's hand fall away. He went and sat by the altar steps, near, but not too near. Sharpe appeared to slide without preamble into restless sleep.

In surprisingly short time, and with very few words wasted, a fire was built and lit, sending smoke to cloud at the ceiling. After a while its warmth began to break though the dank air, spreading finally to touch at the shivering figure of their officer.

Unable to put off the moment any longer, Harper crouched at his side. "Captain, let me clean you up."

As he watched, Sharpe turned his head slowly. Harper smiled in encouragement.

"Where's Hogan?"

"Here." The voice came from the other side of the fire.

"Well, bugger off."

Harper turned. "You heard. Sir."

Hogan looked at the two men, seeing the protective hand that curled around Sharpe's knee. Seeing more than either of them knew. He stood up and straightened his waistcoat. "I'll just take a little stroll around. See what's happening."

"You do that."

Harper watched until the stocky frame was out of the door. Then he faced weary eyes that wouldn't quite meet his own. "I'll be quick as I can."

He began to stand but a cold hand stopped him. "Thanks, Pat."

"Don't be daft, there's nothing to thank me for." Sharpe shook his head, and Harper squeezed his hand in encouragement. Then he tried a smile. "Just don't run away."

"Don't think I could." Sharpe met his eyes momentarily. "Not just now."

"Maybe not at that. How many strokes did he give you?"

"I wasn't counting." Sharpe shuddered.

"Neither was I."

Sharpe looked up through the straggling ends of his hair and suddenly understood what it must have been like to watch. He whispered, remembering, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. There's no shame in it." Harper knelt again, trying for the right words. "We've both seen it before, and will again."

"That's different."

"Maybe." The big shoulders gave a slight shrug.

"I deserved this."

"Jesus! What rubbish..." Harper looked appalled.

"No. I should have stayed. Or made him come with me." Sharpe bent his head and let his hair hide his eyes. "I didn't even think of that."

"Hogan should have told you the truth. How did he expect you to work in the dark?"

"That's how he thinks; tell as little as you can get away with. I shouldn't have expected anything else."

Harper ground his teeth and cursed. "Damn him."

"No." Sharpe winced as he pushed away from the stone. "No, it was me he damned." He clutched at Harper's shirt-sleeve, and his sergeant saw fever beginning to burn deep in the over-bright eyes. Fever, along with loss. When he continued, it was with certainty: "I'll never be able to go back." He may as well have spoken of the end of the world.

"Where?" The sergeant frowned in confusion.

"To him."

"Ah." With a deep breath, Harper knew the truth. He held still, ashamed of the pointless envy that sliced through him.

"If I went back he'd kill me. Or I'd kill him." Sharpe considered, then blinked as the obvious solution showed itself to his tired thoughts. "Perhaps, after all, I should go."

"No!" Harper exclaimed at the suggestion. "If you try I'll tie you up and not let you out of my sight until that tom-fool idea is rotted from your brain! Richard, this is the fever talking, wait until you feel better, then reason it out."

"Reason? I think this is the sleep of reason." He gave a half laugh, half sob, that cut through all the envy. "Oh, Patrick! Hold me?"

And Harper, his own shame buried, gathered the damaged body into gentle arms and held on, rocking very slightly as Sharpe clumsily wept.

*****

The fever took hold long before they arrived back at the British lines. Harper rode with his captain in front of him, holding the swaying body upright, listening to the muttered ravings, hearing many things he never wanted to hear again. Their arrival caused a mild stir, though Harper managed to get Sharpe into his tent before too many eyes had seen. Rumour would take care of the rest, but at least he had been clean, dressed and more or less upright.

With Ramona to watch while he slept, Harper sat beside the sweating, over-heated body, washing the wasting limbs with cool water, salving the ruined back. He waited patiently, sure that his officer would mend, sure that all his efforts would not be in vain. Through the two days it took for the fever to break he warded off all visitors, held his hand over the dry and blistered mouth when the dreams induced violent struggles with an unseen adversary, stifled the misery, the long, rambling, incoherent conversations with an absent man; conversations that in his right mind Sharpe would never have believed.

Or maybe he would. Now.

Harper was no longer sure he knew Sharpe at all. The time in the mountains had changed him, perhaps forever.

On the morning of the third day, when Harper was finally considering harsher measures to break the fever, Sharpe finally woke, quite lucid. Thin, as pale as the bleached cotton of his sheets, he looked Harper in the eye, asked for water and then went to sleep. True sleep.

It was enough. Ramona laughed and danced around when she heard, going off to tell the pack of Riflemen who haunted the area close to Sharpe's tent. Harper heard the cheers from where he sat, though he didn't join in them himself.

A few hours later Sharpe woke. Hungry, he managed a bowl of soup, though he remained quiet, saying almost nothing, the deep sorrow that seemed to have soaked him to the bone, painful for Harper to see. So painful that when Hogan came to him and asked, Harper agreed. He gave Ramona instructions and kissed her. Then, without a word to the man who lay staring into the empty air, his body healing but his soul in purgatory, Harper led Hogan and a half-company from the South Essex back into the mountains.

Sharpe was so distracted that it was almost a day before he realised that Harper was gone. He plucked fretfully at the sheets, tossed and turned as much as he was able, then for the first time since returning, set unsteady foot outside the tent.

The warmth of feeling the closest of his own men showed him was almost too much. He stood still, their pleasure, their genuine delight in seeing him up and about almost enough to unman him. He tried to smile, succeeded for most of the time, laughed at a sally from one, admired the babe of another, whilst all the time the weight of pain in his body served as a constant reminder of another place, other joy.

He bore up well under their enthusiasm. He answered their questions as best he could, trying not to flinch away from their boisterousness, their goodwill. After a while, when he was sure he couldn't stand any longer, Harris took his arm and guided him back to his tent, easing him back onto the bed.

Sharpe looked up at the intelligent eyes, remembered they had been there as well; that they had seen it all. Well, all that counted. He swallowed hard, bitterly, but made himself ask, "Harris?"

"Yes, sir?" Poised with a mug of water in his hand, the rifleman turned.

"Where's Harper?"

Harris cleared his throat, and tried to avoid the issue. "Here, drink this, sir."

"Tell me." Sharpe took the mug, holding it tightly between his hands.

"He went with Major Hogan, sir."

"Where?"

"Back there, sir. To the mountains."

Staring at the floor, Sharpe absorbed the information in silence. Then he lifted his head, his mouth set grimly. "Thank you."

Harris shuffled from one foot to the other and cursed himself. Not that he'd been told that Sharpe shouldn't know. But maybe it would have been better.

"That'll be all, Harris."

"Yes, sir." He hesitated, but when Sharpe glared at him he left, going to sit with the others, a very troubled young man.

The next day, with the sun playing hide and seek with the clouds, Sharpe was sat on a stool outside his tent, staring at nothing in particular. A thin cotton shirt covered his back. He looked up as Harper walked up to him. The Irishman was filthy, powder burns on his face, mud and blood darkening his uniform.

Sharpe frowned, a shadow moving across his face. The silence stretched between them, though in the end it was Sharpe who broke it asunder. He closed his eyes briefly and accepted the pain, though he still had the grace to phrase the statement as a question. "Did you kill him?"

"No." Harper shook his head, weary beyond belief. "Believe me or not, but I went to bring him back."

The information slowly sank into Sharpe's confusion. He tried not to ask, but such fortitude was beyond him. "Did you?"

"No." Harper flinched at the need that shone so starkly through the inadequate disguise. He took a deep breath and drew himself up until he was standing straight, wiping the fatigue from his mind. "I'm sorry, but Carlyle is dead. One of his own men shot him. We believe they thought he'd betrayed them."

Sharpe closed his eyes and a near invisible tremor ran through him. The sun was very bright on his lids and he looked down, hiding his eyes from the light.

"Jesus, I tried..."

Sharpe interrupted him. "Did you bury him?"

"No." Harper knew what the question was really asking. "But I saw him fall. We'd won by then and someone torched the building. I'm sorry. I rode straight back here. I thought you'd want to know."

"Yes. Thank you." Sharpe was examining his hands, picking at the old callouses on his palms with ragged nails.

"It wouldn't have worked."

"No?" Sharpe grimaced. "I had thought that too."

"You were right." Harper permitted no doubt to stray into his voice.

"Maybe." Sharpe sighed, straightening, feeling the pain in his back as a echo. "Maybe."

"There's no maybes involved. Forget it all. You're needed here. The men need you. And so do I."

Sharpe listened, and knew there was unambiguous truth in the words. But despite knowing that, knowing that there was a place for him here, that what might have been was only a ghost, a phantom he had danced after as gleefully as an untried girl, he still wanted to hear the piper and follow him away into the hills.

Everything had changed. Carlyle had changed it all. Hollow, Sharpe wondered what the chance encounter had made of him. What there was left of the man who had ridden so blithely up to the mountains.

The reality was far more simple, far less edged with the romance of memory. He had a future, though one that was now without choice. To be sure, it was a future he had once seen as the only one, though that was then and the world had shifted on its axis long since; spun upon itself by a pair of arrogant dark eyes and a strength that equalled his own.

But that was not the path for his thoughts to take. After all, he was a soldier. Perhaps there were still no choices to be made at all. If there ever had been.

Slowly, without pretence at grace, he stood up, leaning his hand on Harper's shoulder, seeing for the first time how tired the sergeant was, seeing the lines bitten deep into the skin of his face. How much did you have to love someone before it was true love? He shook his head. "Patrick." The name was an affirmation.

"That's me, sir."

"I know." Sharpe gave the solid muscle under his hand a shake. "I do know that. Whatever." He paused, then let his hand fall to his side. "You'd better get cleaned up. Ramona will be beside herself."

"She'll be all right, sir. Be glad to see me back, so she will."

Sharpe searched his face, deeply intent. "So am I, Pat. So am I."

"Good, for I've something for you." Harper tossed a bundle onto the floor, then bent down to open it up. The first thing he passed to his captain was his own sword.

"Patrick!"

"Ay, well, sir. I thought you might feel a bit lost without it." He watched with a smile on his face as Sharpe slid the blade from its scabbard. "I brought back what I could find."

Sharpe looked down and there in the blanket lay his French cavalry overalls, his boots and a square wooden case he didn't recognise. Sliding the blade back into its housing he used it to point. "What's that? I don't think it's mine."

"It's not." Harper hesitated then crouched down again, picking up the wooden case in his hands and holding it for a long moment, seeing the beautiful patina of the wood caused by long, gentle handling; years of polish and care. "But I thought you should see it."

"Go on then, hand it over." Sharpe was curious, almost excited. The case looked as if it should house a small painting, he seen its like in the baggage of other officers.

Harper held it out, almost seeming to curse as the case changed hands. "I'm sorry."

"Why, is it..."

But Sharpe got no further, trapped into stone by the sight held so unwillingly before his eyes. True, the case held a likeness of the man he remembered, but by its side was that of a woman; a woman who held two children close to her silk clad breast. He stared at the images for a long time, memorising the fine shape of her chin, the sparkle that kindled in her eyes. The children he could hardly bear to look upon.

"I'm sorry, sir. But I though you should see it." Harper had actually thought it would make things seem better, though from the pallor of his officer's skin he wasn't sure that was absolutely true. "I'm sorry if I was wrong..."

"No!" Sharper closed the case with a snap. "No, you were right. I was a fool to think..." He broke off, then started again. "Thank you." He straightened.

"It was in his desk."

"I see."

"Mister Hogan said I could take it."

"Ay, he would."

Harper couldn't think of anything else to say. After a while, Sharpe took away the need. "Pat, thanks for everything."

"Anytime, sir. Anytime."

"Good. Well, we'll be marching soon."

"So rumour says. It'll be good to doing something again, won't it, sir?"

"It will at that, Patrick." Sharpe looked up suddenly with a wide smile. "Well, Ramona will be wondering what's become of you, you'd better go and let her know you're all right."

"Aye, sir."

"And thanks again." Sharpe moved away, then turned back as if suddenly thinking of something. "Oh, and Pat, while you're at it - get rid of this." He handed over the portrait case, his finger scarcely lingering on the smooth apple-wood. "I won't be needing it." And he was gone, ducking inside his own tent with a finality that left no doubt as to his wish to be alone.

Pursued by a nagging feeling of doubt, Harper went off to find water, food and as much alcohol as he could lay hands on. He wanted to get blindly, gloriously drunk. That way he might forget the past week. The same as Sharpe needed to. Though that might need a bit more than an indulgence in wine. What the Captain needed was a battle. Something to get his teeth into that involved no feeling, no decisions other than those he made so well. For Sharpe, the simplicity of life and death would always be easier to deal with than the wild complexities of love.

The disquieting thought brought him up short in surprise. Had it been that?

Maybe. Though now neither of them would ever know.

There was shame in that. To be laid firmly at Hogan's feet, along with more than a handful of other crimes. Harper cursed softly, the Gaelic a mere breath in the evening air. Then he shook himself. This was no place to be maudlin. Sharpe would need prompting to get back to himself. He didn't need a sergeant suddenly turned fey.

That brought a smile to his lips. Fey, indeed! Almost as mad a thought as his Captain in love with another man, when what he needed was a nice rich wife to keep him warm when the war was over. There was no doubt that he would live through it. Harper would see to that, regardless of what Mister Sharpe might think or want. Yes, a nice soft handful of a wife. He grinned, that would certainly make the captain forget. Harper nodded to himself and walked on, seeing Ramona begin to run towards him.


	6. Tangled...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home but not...

**PART TWO**

_London, England. 1816._

"Will you take a look at that!"

Obedient, Sharpe put his glass down on the stained and scarred table and let his gaze follow the direction of Harper's wide-eyed appreciation. After a moment he nodded, then turned back to his drink. "Very nice."

"Oh, come on now, she's more than that!" Harper's brown eyes were transfixed as a girl ran playfully through the crowded room, squealing and laughing as hands grabbed at her, daring one and all to take up the offer of her near naked flesh. The Irishman didn't bother to hide his appreciation of the way she bounced so generously with every hop and skip about the room. "There's a handful to keep a man warm..."

Sharpe gave a short laugh, his eyes remaining quite cold. "A handful of pox, more like. Come on, Pat, Ramona would have your balls if she saw you lusting after a whore like that."

"Oh, but I'm only looking."

"Close your mouth or you'll be catching flies."

The big man snapped his mouth shut and grinned, tearing his eyes away from the girl in her thin shift and turning back to his companion. "Ah, it's a great and crying shame when you can't even have an eyeful any more."

"You're a married man. How many kids is it now?"

"Two, as you very well know."

"And another on the way."

Harper managed to look both proud and embarrassed at the same time. He had finally made an honest woman of the Spanish girl he had met whilst fighting against the French in the peninsular, and for all his complaining was really quite content. He'd brought them all home. All of them, including his officer. And that had been more of a close run thing than all the battles he'd fought put together. He stretched back in the settle, hearing the protest of the wood under his weight even above the noise of the crowd, and sighed in satisfaction. He was truly going to enjoy the peace-time life. "Well, I appear to have the gift of it."

"And Ramona."

Harper raised his glass, "To Ramona, as grand a girl as ever walked the earth!"

They both drank, the cheap brandy rough in their throats.

Sharpe refilled their glasses from the bottle on the table, carefully measuring out the last of the spirit between the two of them. Neither of them was drunk, but then neither was exactly sober either. "You'll be happy with her, Pat." Sharpe's voice was roughened from long talk and too much drink. He nodded sagely to himself. "I'm glad for you."

"Thank you. I just hope she takes to Dublin."

"She will, she's followed you half way across Europe as it is - like I said, you're a lucky bastard."

"So are we both, two arms, two legs and two eyes apiece." He crossed himself surreptitiously. "More than you can say for some poor bastards."

Sharpe hadn't noticed the superstitious gesture, he was too busy remembering. "Ay. We were lucky."

It was a year since Waterloo, a year since the chaos and terror and bloody stench of that decisive day. But whatever happened, neither man would ever forget. As it was, every street had its share of beggars, more than likely crippled and wearing the rags of the King's uniform; it took no more than a casual stroll to make any whole ex-soldier thank fate afresh.

Not that either of them wanted to think of such things tonight. They had for most of it carefully avoided any topic that might become serious. Tonight was for amusement; for Harper sailed for Dublin on the morning tide. Ramona and the children were already safely stowed aboard the ship, ready for departure. What was left of the night, which was a good few hours despite the lengthy drinking session, was for the two friends to say goodbye. A proper goodbye before Harper went home.

They looked at each other, and each saw reflected acute awareness of the few hours left to them. The hours could almost be counted on one hand; suddenly, neither man wanted to waste a single minute. Harper glanced around the group and began to lean across the table, but at that very moment the whore, remarkably still covered by her shift, squealed loudly and landed in Sharpe's lap. Her breasts had slipped out of confinement, a fact neither man could ignore. Flushed and laughing as she was, she looked uncommonly wholesome. She tossed her long red hair over her shoulder and took a good look at the man she'd sat on. And squirmed herself deeper into his crotch, breathless and alive with appreciation. "Evenin', handsome, buy us a drink?"

Sharpe leaned back and tried to escape the heady, none-too-clean scent that came off the girl's heated body. "No."

"Captain!" Harper was almost shocked at Sharpe's brusqueness. Very well, she was a whore, but such a pretty, lusty one that it couldn't hurt to be civil, at the very least.

"Oh, captain is it? One of King George's brave soldiers." She giggled and ran a finger down the sober broad-cloth of his coat. "Bet you looked fine in gold lace - go on, buy us a gin."

Pushing her away, Sharpe tucked her breasts back into her shift with casual disinterest and stood her up with a pat on the backside. Without appearing to search for it he produced a silver coin in his long fingers and offered it to her. She stood quite spell-bound by its dull glint, her mouth set in a round oh of anticipation.

"Here you are."

She licked her lips, then frowned. "What d'you want for it?" She glanced around warily, only taking the coin when she was sure her man wasn't looking. "I can't spend all night, 'e wouldn't like it."

Sharpe's expression softened, and he spoke quite kindly. "I don't want anything, lass. It's for you."

"Nothin' at all?"

"No."

"Why?" Such generosity was beyond her experience.

"Because my friend likes you, and because his wife would skin him alive if he did anything other than look." He met Harper's grin with a wry look. "Go on."

Encouraged by another gentle pat she took a pace away, then turning back smiled once, before disappearing into the crowd.

"Happy now?" Sharpe picked up his glass and took a long swallow.

"If seeing you get soft in the head can make me happy, yes, then I am." Harper was smiling at his friend.

"Soft in the head? I thought you liked her?"

"I did, but I was content to look, and if she'd been sitting on me I'd probably have had a little feel, but I wasn't the one going around giving away coin I can't afford."

"Oh, I think I can afford it. Besides, I won't need any more money tonight."

"No?"

"No." Sharpe finished his drink and carefully placed the glass back on the table, staring hard at a pattern made by interlocking rings of spilt wine, before finally looking up. "Come home with me, Pat?"

Harper took a deep breath. "I thought you'd never ask."

"All the arguments I told the girl are true - Ramona wouldn't like it."

"Ramona will have me for the rest of my life. I think she can spare you one night."

"We will meet again, Ireland isn't at the end of the world."

"Wait till you've been to Ardagh in the winter."

Sharpe ignored the attempted humour. "You know what I mean, Pat."

Harper nodded, and his eyes lifted, met Sharpe's. "I do at that." He suddenly wanted the world to be different, for Richard Sharpe to be happy. Though the sad truth was, that Harper himself had no control over such a thing. Sharpe didn't need him, not now, not now that peace had brought near to twenty years of fighting to a halt. What he did need Harper was lost to know, but if it had been himself, then he would have stayed, would probably have said goodbye to his wife - if he ever married her in the first place. Sharpe's answers were not that simple, if they ever had been. Though it was hard to think that they might be buried under the ruins of a castle far away in Spain. He nodded to himself, but spoke in reply; "Yes, you'll come to Ireland and I'll come to London, but this is goodbye, isn't it."

"Goodbye to the past. We can't live there forever."

"No." Sombre and ridiculously bereft, Harper reached across and took hold of a dark sleeve. "Come then, if this is the last time, let's make it worth remembering."

The flare of lust that jolted through Sharpe was so intense he almost groaned aloud. "Ay..."

Almost unnoticed they stood, slipped through the crowd and out of the smoke-dense room and into the cold London air. The whore was the only one to watch their departure, the only one to mark the way their hands brushed together as they walked. The man on whose lap she sat had his calloused hands up her skirt and she had almost let him take free possession of her, before she recollected herself, slapped his hand away and fell back to the age-old task of haggling.

*****

The walk to Sharpe's rooms was not long. Despite the awareness that hung between them as thick as silk, they managed to talk of general matters, of the Chosen men, those who lived, and what they were all going to do in the grand peace that was to make England so prosperous. Too many of the men had died for the list to be long: but Harris was settled with a pretty young wife, his education finally of use as a clerk; Hagman was back in the village he had grown up in, living with the son no one had known he even had, and all the others, they were settled in one way or another - Sharpe had seen to that, making sure that the gold he had smuggled out of Spain went in a good cause. He'd kept some for himself, enough so he'd never starve, but that was about it. Sometimes he wished he had nothing at all.

Autumn was heavy in the air, the evening sharply chill after the stifling tap-room. Walking away from the noise, they headed into a maze of narrow alleys, walking until the only sound was of their boot-heels, loud in the silence. After a while their conversation died away, leaving a pleasant companionship all the sweeter for its imminent conclusion.

Sharpe had found accommodation in an old part of the town, it was cheap, yet reasonably clean and surprisingly respectable. The widow who ran it had a soft spot for soldiers, seeing in every face an echo of her husband and son, both lost to the guns at Corunna. Sharpe slid his key into the lock and offered up a silent prayer that she was asleep. He despised himself for appreciating the way she cared, though he ate her food and smiled with good grace when she mended his clothes. But tonight he didn't want a hot drink to help his sleep. He wanted Harper.

Thankfully, all was well. They crept through the sleeping house, climbing the narrow stairs to Sharpe's rooms and finally, safe behind a locked door, stood alone.

Though somehow neither man could think of words to say.

Harper watched as Sharpe crouched down by the small fire-place and busied himself setting the small heap of wood alight, fumbling with flint and tinder as if his hands were no longer his own. Harper smiled to himself, the clumsiness was so characteristic of his friend when ill at ease. Perhaps this was all for the best: to end it here; to become just friends with a thousand shared memories. The mere thought was like pulling a part of himself free, but if it was for the health of the whole, then it must be for the best. He sighed and dragged his gaze away.

The room was basically furnished, totally utilitarian. Almost as bare as a campaign tent. Harper frowned as he looked around, unsure at first quite what was so unsettling. Then he knew. This place was just somewhere to live, it wasn't a home. Apart from the sword hanging on the wall and a pile of ragged books set haphazardly by the bed, there was nothing to say who lived here. Nothing at all. The room was pleasant enough, but painfully empty, as if its tenant was merely passing through. Harper suddenly knew why he had never been invited before and he shivered slightly.

Crouched by the fire, Sharpe waited until the flames had caught, then stood up, turning almost shyly to face the other man, catching the pained expression on his face as he finished a tour of the room. He glanced around and gave a half shrug. "It's not much."

"It's fine, what more do you need for heaven's sake."

"Liar." Sharpe shrugged, then visibly relaxed, giving the beginnings of a smile. "I am glad you came back with me."

Harper nodded, his answering grin as broad as a summer's day. "So am I. Come here."

Slighter, far less heavy since the delights of peace had added to Harper's bulk and lessened his own, Sharpe went and stood in his one-time sergeant's shadow.

"I'll miss you, Richard."

"And I you. But we had some good times."

"More than most."

"Ay."

"I won't forget... If you ever need anything, a home, whatever, you know where to find me."

"I'll head for Dublin and ask the first rogue I see for the whereabouts of one Patrick Harper."

"Ask for the best beer in the city - then you'll find me."

Sharpe nodded.

They stood together for a while, quite at sea now that the world was their own, neither sure of making the first move. In the end it was Harper who took his courage and spoke, his voice soft, his lilt deepened by the difficulty of what he was about to say. "Richard, would you do me a small favour - seeing as this is goodbye and all that?"

"Name it."

He took a deep breath. "Would you kiss me?"

"Oh, Patrick." Sharpe would have done far more; this was such a small recompense. He swallowed hard and stepped very close; clumsy, ridiculously unprepared for the intimacy considering all they had shared, all they had done.

It was the first time he had really known of the difference in their heights, which, while not a great deal, was enough for Harper to need to bend to him, to curve his neck in almost the same way as Sharpe would have done to a girl. But the kiss itself took away any reservations; sweet and expressive, it stole his embarrassment and melted his doubt.

It was strange way to say goodbye, to kiss someone for the first time, but it was remarkably fitting.

Sharpe opened his lips and let his friend inside, shivering as the warm tongue touched his own, slid across his teeth, commanded as it beseeched. He held the wide shoulders tight in his hands, pressed deeper, tasting brandy and wine, tasting the need that pressed Harper's groin to his own with a urgency that felt like an iron bar within his breeches.

The last time. He shuddered and broke away from the kiss, swallowing hard on the thought. "Pat..."

Harper shook his head. "No, don't go and spoil it."

Sharpe took a deep, unsteady breath, then let it out with a rush. "No." He blinked, seeing his companion in the fire-light, seeing the strength he had relied upon for so long, seeing the love that he had never quite acknowledged.

The Irishman was right, words would never be enough. Instead, releasing his hold, he began to strip off his clothes, throwing them all haphazardly onto the floor. Then, naked, he reached for the buttons that held coarse wool tight across a broad chest.

A large hand stilled his movement. "No, let me see you."

"What?"

"Let me remember."

Confused but willing, Sharpe stood still while Harper paced around him. He began to laugh in embarrassment, but a finger laid itself across his lips and, obedient, he was quiet. Harper shook his head, "God, but you're beautiful..."

He pushed the hand away. "Don't be daft!"

"Shhh. If I want to say that, well, now I can. I can say anything, can't I?"

Sharpe blinked. "Suppose so."

"Gracious as ever." Harper grinned and ran his hands down the lean flanks, smiling as a soft sound of need escaped Sharpe's lips and a hand reached for him. He caught it, placed a kiss in its palm and tucked it back at Sharpe's side. "Be still, I won't be long." He made one last circuit of the stationary figure, seeming to touch every scar, seeming to remember every mark with a slight touch of his fingers. After a long while he stilled, and pushing aside the over-long, silken hair, kissed the vulnerable nape of his friend's neck. "Beautiful." The word was barely a whisper, but it stirred something long dead in Sharpe, and he shivered in response.

Running a quick hand down the length of Sharpe's back, Harper turned away to strip off his own coat. In no time he was out of boots, breeches and linen, standing as naked as his companion in the shadowy room.

Suddenly quite sure of himself, Harper went and sat on the bed, holding out a hand. "Come here."

Sharpe obeyed. Seeing the spear of flesh that rose ready from Harper's groin, his knees felt weak. Speechless, he stood between the outstretched thighs and closed his eyes as he was folded into a warm embrace. They held just so for a long while, hearing the beat of blood through each others' veins, breathing the scents and smells that would soon be out of reach, brushing fingers against skin. The intimacy was as deep as any they had ever known - deeper. For there would be no tomorrow to cast shame on today.

They drew apart and with casual ease, sure of what was about to happen, Sharpe pulled back the bed-covers and spread himself belly down onto the sheet. He waited, wanting this, wanting the moment when he would cease to think or reason and would only know the weight of a man on his back and the possession of a cock planted root deep in his arse. But a hand ran the length of his spine, curved around a buttock, then skimmed back up to his neck. The bed dipped as Harper moved; to lay by his side.

"What...?"

"Shhh, it's all right, I promise, this way'll be just grand." Harper grunted as he shifted onto the bed.

"But I thought you'd..."

"Fuck you."

"Ay, Patrick, it's our last time!" Fingers, suddenly white knuckled with need, clutched at a wide shoulder, shook it in emphasis.

"And we've all the rest of the night." Harper smiled, and shrugged as best he could. "I want to hold you, to watch you."

Sharpe swallowed his objections, for there were none, really. None that made any sense. He lifted his hand, took an unsteady breath and stroked Harper's dark, curling hair away from the broad brow. "Whatever you want, Pat, whatever."

"Then come here."

He went, letting Harper fit their limbs together and began the press and slide that would bring them both pleasure, all the while holding green eyes with his own. After a time Harper shifted, lifting Sharpe on top, holding tight to the delicious arse he could never resist, using his own strength to grind their bodies together, to control the push of cock against cock, of velvet skin over bone hard need. They were both sweating, grunting with effort as their bodies gave in, Sharpe slipping over the edge first, his eyes closing, his face twisting in the pleasure that was closest to pain as he spilled his seed between them, its warmth the only trigger Harper needed to arch high with need and cry out, the sound taken into his lover with a kiss that left them breathless, held tight to the fixed points of each other's need.

Afterwards, Sharpe crawled into the circle of Harper's arms and tried to keep awake. This was all the time they had left. he rested his head against the solid pad of muscle and wondered where else he had ever felt as at home. Only once. But that had been a long time ago, and besides, the man was dead. He pushed the memory away, resigned to its presence, but not wanting it now. Now was Harper's. He smiled as a gentle hand curved around his shoulders. Gods, but Harper was a good man. Better than most. At least Ramona would take care of him. He smiled and was considering the idea of Harper needing to be looked after as he slid painlessly into sleep.

*****

It was broad daylight when he awoke to an empty bed.

Wan light streamed through threadbare curtains and filled the room, sunlight pooling on the floor through a single gap. The fire was burned to ashes and from out in the street came the sounds of the world getting on with its living.

Harper would be gone. The ship sailed and halfway to the open sea. Out past Whitstable, skirting Dover, a salute to the Isle of Wight, Exmouth, Land's End and then the long pull across the sea to Dublin. All that to come and yet the journey only just begun.

Lying quite still, his face half buried in the pillow, Sharpe realised that for the first time in too many years to count, he was truly alone, his life was apparently without purpose.

He closed his eyes and pushed his face further into the pillow. He didn't want to think on the future. Couldn't. He ached too much from the wrench of Patrick's departure, from the loss of a friendship that had supported his through more than any man had right to expect.

But Harper had his own life. One he deserved. He couldn't coddle his friend forever, indeed, Sharpe didn't want that. But he wasn't sure what he did want in its stead.

It was certain though that Harper should have woken him. It would have been good to walk through the early morning mist down to the wharf, to have kissed Ramona one last time and waved the Merchantman off. It would have been good, or so he imagined.

He twisted in the crumpled sheets and stretched out onto his back, seeing the farewell in his mind's eye. Then frowned. Perhaps Harper would have been ashamed, knowing what had so recently happened between them. Afraid perhaps that something might have given them away, some glance, some lingering sweetness. Or maybe something as simple as the scent of one from the other. Ramona wasn't blind. Or simple.

Perhaps this was better.

Safer.

Sharper tried to smile, but the expression twisted itself into a grimace; a wry amusement that bordered on despair.

Besides, he would only have felt a fool, being left alone on the quayside, waving at the river. And Harper would have had his hands full keeping the children out of mischief without having to worry about his friend.

For worry he did.

Sharpe sighed, and remembered being woken in the dead of night by hands that pressed him to the bed and a hot eager mouth that kissed him soundly, taking in the safety of darkness all that daylight would not allow. With whispered words of command and entreaty, Harper had taken his fill of his officer, joining them one last time: taking the gift of flesh and transmuting it into a pleasure that flared bright in the darkness, leaving an imprint like the sun stared at too long on both their minds.

Sharpe knew he should have understood farewell when it came up and screwed him.

That thought did make him laugh, though the soft sound caught uneasily on another emotion. One he didn't want to recognise at all.

Abruptly, he sat up, pushing the sheets away. The room still looked empty and he glared at it, wondering if it was worth the effort of trying to make it into a place truly his own. Somewhere he'd be happy to bring friends back to. Not that he'd ever need to, for the only person he truly would welcome was just probably being sea-sick. There was no one else. The occasional doxy perhaps, but he knew better than to make any of them welcome. His experience being that the smallest kindness could easily be re-interpreted as a marriage proposal, and marriage was something he had no desire to experience again.

With a shiver of memory he climbed out of the tall bed and stood for a moment, his arms held around his chest. There had to be a reason to get up. There always had been, now was no different. There were things he should be doing. He looked around. The fireplace needed a good cleaning, the remains of last night's ashes lying heaped upon near to a week's leavings. The bed was a rumpled mess and could well do with the sheets being laundered, but they must still smell of Harper, and even so small a reminder was better than none. He wouldn't send them to be cleaned - not yet.

His sword, Harper's gift, stood rusting in a corner. Last night he should have been ashamed to have it in the same room as the man who forged it from a heavy, ugly brute of a blade, into the fine-honed weapon that had saved his life on more than one battle. His other sword, a gift from the Patriotic Fund was in hock, gone to pay for Harris' clerkship. Not that he missed it. A fine, ornate thing it had been, but no more use than a wooden stick.

He contemplated what needed to be done, but instead he pushed it all from his mind and began to ready himself to dress.

He was in trousers and shirt, sitting staring idly into space when a timid knock at the door roused him. Standing, he opened the door to his landlady.

"Morning Mr Sharpe."

"Morning, Mrs Moyes, I'm afraid I'm not quite ready to receive visitors."

She blushed slightly, her wrinkles standing out against the darkening skin. "Now, I wasn't going to disturb you so early, not after you had such a late night, and up most of the rest of it talking with your visitor, but this arrived for you, and I was told to bring it directly up to you, so I have." She held out a largish parcel that was bound up with brown paper and string.

"For me you say, who brought it?" With a frown Sharpe reached out and took it from her grasp.

"A boy, no one I know." Alice Moyes smoothed her gown and straightened her cap. "But I brought it right up - I thought it might be important." She waited, her eyes bright with curiosity.

"Thank you." He took a step back and began to close the door, then thought. "Did you have to pay anything?"

"No, the boy said it had all been taken care of."

"Right. Well, thanks again."

As the door was about to close she asked hopefully, "Will you be down for luncheon?"

The negative reply was almost drowned by the sound of the door being firmly closed and the key turning in the lock. Mrs Moyes gave a small indignant sound, and made her way back down the narrow stairs, already considering a visit to her friend and neighbour Anne Goodsby to pass on the latest scraps of gossip about her most interesting lodger.

Alone, Sharpe listened to the retreating tread of footsteps on the stairs. He held the parcel between his hands and wondered, then sitting himself down before the empty grate tore the wrapping away.

He physically felt the blood leave his face, coming as close to fainting for no reason as he ever had in his life.

Harper. He must have planned to leave this to Sharpe. Must, in fact, have carried it half-way around Europe in order to bring it here. Sharpe didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The wood was so familiar against his fingers, as if it was something he had touched every day of his life, though in truth he had only ever held it once. It had appeared in his dreams many times, sometimes for good, sometimes for ill.

With breath held tight in his body, he slipped the catch and opened the case up, the hinge resisting slightly before giving in to firm pressure. He blinked hard, then stared.

Carlyle.

Sharpe closed his eyes hard as pain, bitter as a knife in the heart, twisted his side. He took a shuddering breath and bowed over, holding the wood tight, not daring to look again, knowing the treacherous face that would stare at him, mock him. It had all been so long ago, yet the wound was as fresh as if it had been sliced into him but yesterday.

And the wife. The children. Without looking he knew the faces in the companion portrait set opposite Carlyle's; set so that when the case was closed the faces of the man and woman would almost touch. A lover's memento. Sharpe snapped it closed and tried to level his breathing, pain leaving his face bleached white, bone carving its way through the skin.

Without thought or care he pushed himself upright, barely hearing the crack as the case slid hard to the floor.

Damn Harper. Why had he done it? Why save something that was sure to give pain?

Unless he didn't think it was pain it would give.

From pacing the floor, Sharpe stopped in his tracks and fought a quiet battle with the truth. To admit the love he had felt was very hard. To admit, even to himself, that the love hadn't died with the flogging was well nigh impossible.

He shuddered once, then mind wiped clean of all but one thought, he finished dressing and headed out into the street, heading without hesitation for the first drinking house he could find.

*****

The long room was dark and ill-lit, hardly occupied at all, yet he still had to wait to be served. He leaned on the table and rapped impatiently with a coin. Eventually a fat man with a greasy apron twisted around his girth appeared from a back room and shuffled towards him.

"Mornin', how can I help you?"

Sharpe was in no mood for pleasantries. "Brandy."

"Ay."

"Make it a bottle."

The landlord turned and, reaching high onto a shelf, pulled down a dusty bottle from the serried ranks standing there. It was not long since French Brandy had been once again on open sale, after over twenty years of war. Though from the dust that coated the bottle's shoulders it looked as if this particular one, probably along with a case or ten of its fellows, had been secreted away for regular customers.

Sharpe took the bottle in one hand, a glass in the other and left a coin for payment. He didn't reply to the message of goodwill that followed him across the room as, without hesitation, he moved to the most secluded table and settled there. Picking at the wax seal until it fell free, he levered the cork from the bottle. Immediately the rich smell of oblivion rushed out to meet him. Oblivion as a promise with a thousand memories chasing hard on its tails. He poured a full glass and took a long swallow.

They were better memories. The taste of the brandy was something he'd grown used to in Spain. He and Harper had liberated many a bottle from a dead man's pack. He sat quite still as a flotilla of recollections floated through his thoughts. How many bottles had there been in all, of Spanish brandy as well as French. One time they had found a wagon full of barrels, though perhaps found wasn't quite the right word.

He almost smiled: Carlyle almost forgotten. The level in the bottle sank gradually as he pulled at the strings of memory. Occasionally pain came back to gnaw at him, but each time a good swig would put paid to it.

Once, somehow, he allowed himself to consider what might have been, had he accepted Carlyle's proposal and stayed in Spain. To have left the army, left Harper. Where would they all be now? Dead probably. Surprisingly that possibility cheered him, and he celebrated with a toast to the future. For he was alive. Though quite what he was going to do with such a magnificent gift he wasn't at all sure. He put his glass down with a too heavy hand, almost upsetting it. Damn, but he wasn't drunk. Couldn't be. He straightened and peered at the bottle. It was empty. He raised an eyebrow at it, quite prepared to believe that someone had swapped bottles in a moment of his inattention.

He looked around. The place was suddenly very full. Where had they all come from so quickly? And why the devil weren't they out earning a living? He sat for a moment, stewed in befuddlement. Then, with decision, he stood up.

And regretted the impulse immediately.

Perhaps he had drunk all the brandy, after all.

Gathering himself he stood straight, one hand braced against the wall. Fresh air was undoubtedly all he needed, and on unsteady feet he made his way towards it, pushing through the groups of drinkers, muttering under his breath as he went.

Once outside, he saw to immense surprise that the day was nearly through. The shadows belonged to late afternoon and Sharpe had almost to pinch himself to believe the evidence of his own eyes.

Leaning against a wall he breathed in and out. Slowly and carefully. It was certain he was drunk, yet how had it happened? He held still and tried to form a coherent thought, but it was impossible.

"'ello, mister. What you doin' all alone."

He peered up blearily and saw a girl, swaying towards him. Though perhaps it wasn't the girl who was swaying. He tried to focus.

"Come on, dearie, I'll give you a good time."

She wasn't a girl, the complexion had come out of a bottle and left her raddled under the coarse artistry. Once she had been blond, probably the prettiest girl on her street. Now, gin and the myriad inconveniences of her trade had taken their toll. He shook his head. Not that he'd have been tempted had she looked like Helen of Troy.

"Don't be like that, darlin'. Pretty one like you, I won't ask too much." She came in close, so that all he could smell was her cheap scent that lay over the stench of her unwashed body like oil suspended over water.

Immediately, his stomach revolted and twisting to one side he heaved the brandy he'd spent to long imbibing into the gutter.

Head pounding, he remained bent over, unsure if that one convulsive heave was all his belly was going to give. At his side he could hear the woman laughing, the sound unbelievably harsh in his ears.

Then another voice: "'e's foxed, Lizzie! Try getting yourself someone who's up to it."

"Keep yer nose out! I found 'im first."

"Poor bastard, careful, 'e's not finished yet."

And he wasn't. Sharpe groaned and wished himself dead.

"There, you'll be done in a trice." A light hand touched his back. "Can you stand?"

"Rosie, I warned you! I found 'im first!"

"Have a heart, Liz, can't you see 'e's spent?"

"Can't see nuffin. But 'e might 'ave all sorts tucked in 'is boots."

"'nd you'd roll 'im, soon as look at the poor bugger, wouldn't you Liz!"

"Well, what's it to you, your ladyship?" Even Sharpe could hear the challenge.

"None of your business, but 'e's mine."

And he could hear the iron will in that statement. He had mind enough to wonder why, and struggled to stand straight. Clutching the wall he winced as blood pounded in his skull. Finally, the blurring of his eyesight cleared, and to his great surprise he found that the voice of his, so eloquent, defender, belonged to the girl he'd given the silver coin to the night before.

No wonder she was so possessive. She probably thought there was more where that had come from. Sharpe cleared his mouth and spat into the gutter, turning back to see his champion smiling up at him and the other doxy flouncing away down the street.

"Come on, 'andsome, let's get you 'ome."

"No, I'm fine." He tried for command. "Leave me be."

"With you still looking half cracked? I won't pinch nothin', not like Liz would've done." She smiled and put a hand on his arm. "Promise."

"Ay." He struggled to extricate himself. "But I'm fine." He pushed away from the wall, prepared to demonstrate quite how fine he did feel, but the world began a merry dance around him and he stood very still.

"There, told you. Now, I've a nice strong arm you can lean on."

Sharpe held an unsteady hand to his head, which seemed in imminent danger of falling off, and cursed, muttering softly under his breath; "How can I have got this drunk?"

It wasn't really a question, at least not one aimed at his companion, but she answered it anyway, nodding in sage sympathy. "Probably the second bottle did you in, that's what always gets me."

"Second bottle!"

"You were quite resolute."

"Jesus..."

"Ay, 'e's a comfort to us all." She paused, then gave a shrug. "Come on, Captain, if you don't want to come back with me, tell me where you lodge."

Sharpe was still confounded. "Two bottles?" No wonder he felt like a two day corpse; he'd drunk himself through drunkenness and straight into a hangover. And worst of all, the image that filled his head was still that of Carlyle. With careful gentleness he disengaged her hand from his arm. "You've been very kind. Really. But I reckon I'm not good company right now. But here," he reached into a pocket, "take this for your trouble."

She took the coin with a small smile. "Got a lady waitin', 'ave you?"

"No." He shook his head and fought the wave of self-pity that threatened to rise.

"Yeah, and the moon's made of cheese. Still, if you ever want company, ask anywhere round 'ere for Rose. That's me."

"Thank you."

With one backwards glance she walked away, and after a while, Sharpe pushed himself away from the wall and found he could stay upright, and more or less keep a straight line when he walked.

With little choice of where to go, he returned to his room, closing the door behind him with both relief and revulsion.

The picture was still on the floor. Careful of his head he crouched and picked it up. The case had cracked when he'd dropped it earlier and to his confusion the whole thing fell to bits in his hands.

He fumbled around on the floor, picking up from amidst the bits of wood the two ivory portrait miniatures.

And something else. He reached for it very slowly, holding it lightly in his fingers. A lock of hair. As if in a dream he picked up the painting of Carlyle's wife and children, they were all dark. This lock was light, almost blond as was his own. He swallowed hard and with a hand that stubbornly refused to hold quite steady, pulled forward a strand forward from where it lay against his collar.

The strands matched.

Through twenty years of battle and bloodshed he had rarely wept. Now all he wanted to do was to howl his grief to the sky; cursing heaven, God, Carlyle and himself.

Most of all himself.

He wouldn't weep. Not now, not when there was no hope left at all. In the end all he could do was curl tight around himself, splintered wood strewn around. With eyes wide, he stared blindly into space, into misery, the lock of hair grasped tightly in his fist.

*****

Within a few weeks, winter had locked the city under an icy pall. Travel became more difficult and prices of foodstuffs rose as marketeers battled to bring their goods into the capital. The snow was at its worst to the north, and travellers told that only a few miles south there had been scarcely a snowflake and the roads, though icy, were clear. London, Essex and Hertfordshire sat under a blanket of winter, the worst seen in decades.

Only the young really enjoyed the violent change in London's weather, children fashioned fantastic creatures out of the seemingly endless supply of snow and skating became such a craze, with most of the city's lakes and ponds frozen over, that men and women from all classes took to the ice. But after the second week, the mercury dropped even further and it became too cold for games, leaving the streets deserted of all but the hardy or the desperate. Occasionally some very rich traveller could be seen venturing from one house to another, with carriage, footmen and elaborately warm clothing, though they were far fewer than the season demanded. The only other bodies found on the streets were those of the dead. The harsh winter killed off many of the beggars who had swarmed the streets, leaving old soldiers with the rags of their uniforms for winding sheets and street brats with nothing at all. Many bodies were tossed carelessly into open, shallow communal graves, the ground too hard to dig deep, the wind biting too cold for the grave-diggers to care about fighting the frozen earth for new ones.

Alone in his rooms, Sharpe ate when he was forced to by the pain in his belly and lit the fire when he remembered, or when his fingers finally were too cold to turn the pages of whatever book he was desultorily reading. He ceased bothering to shave the beard from his chin and became utterly careless of appearance, of everything except his daily supply of coarse wine and his nightly supply of brandy. Even his landlady, generous and warm-hearted as she was, gave up on him, and in the end she no longer climbed the narrow stairs with bowls of soup, or tried to draw him into conversation when he forayed down to the yard for the firewood he wouldn't let the maid bring to his room.

He knew he had given up, was quite aware that the listlessness that held him staring at the fire for hours was unhealthy. But he didn't care at all. He rarely ventured out of the one room, his bedroom left cold and his bed untouched. From his couch before the fire he would occasionally stand, restless, and wander over to the window to peer out into the gloom that never really seemed to lift from the street. There he would think about going somewhere, about visiting somebody. But there was never anyone he wanted to see, at least not enough to risk the ice and cold. He would lean on the window-frame and let his breath mist the glass, melt the ice-crystals that sparkled dully in the fire-light. There was nowhere he wanted to be. No one he wanted to see. If the sun had been burning brightly outside on a beautiful summer's day, then he would have had to despise himself. But it wasn't, and as far as he was concerned winter could last forever, the weather serving to allow him the things he craved; solitude and the bitter consolation of being drunk.

For the very first time in his life, Sharpe appreciated why men took refuge in a bottle and never came out; all the disgust such behaviour had engendered in him before burned away by the hollow need that cried to be filled almost before the moment he awoke. Night and day he slept badly, and when he did his sleeping hours were filled with wild dreams, plague filled nightmares that brought terror and a wild despair that left him blank-eyed, reaching unsteadily for the brandy bottle that sat in constant attendance by the couch he rarely left.

He lived because he had to, not by any conscious desire at all. He left the confines of his room only to buy drink, and if he remembered bread and maybe some cheese, then all well and good, if he forgot, then that scarcely mattered either.

But the alcohol was all important.

With the wind howling through the eaves of the houses and the fire smoking as the draught caught the wrong way, Sharpe reached into a cupboard and found his supplies had dwindled to nothing. There was a goodly supply of empty bottles, but none with any drink to wash away the taste of the last night's dreams. He cursed the lack soundly, then with a grunt of irritation, shrugged into his greatcoat and sat on the couch to pull on his boots. For a long moment he frowned at the cracked and peeling leather, then stood up, and slamming the door behind him stumbled down the stairs onto the street.

It was quite early and once outside he blinked in surprise at the sun, which was weakly peering past a bank of snow clouds. Briefly he wondered if the weather would break in time for Christmas, then pushed the thought away with a careless shrug. What did it matter, what did it matter if the world was shrouded in snow for the rest of eternity? As long as the wine merchants opened; he scratched at his beard and almost smiled

Buttoning his coat as he went, Sharpe set forth, careful to walk in the wheel tracks, watching his step and his footing on the treacherous ground. He took a deep breath of the fresh air and found a certain rhythm to his stride. Both hands burrowed deep into torn pockets, he decided that the sunlight must have confused his mind, for instead of where he had thought to go, to the wine-merchant, his feet were taking him a different way, towards the coaching inn that served such good mulled wine. Something hot and heady. Yes, that was what the day demanded. And he set a good pace along the almost empty street.

As he rounded the last corner he could almost taste the delicious concoction and his stomach gave a rumble, giving notice that some food would be much appreciated. He was considering the possibility of roast beef when every thought was seared from his head and he stopped dead in his tracks, breath driven from his lungs as if a giant fist had punched it away.

Outside the inn stood a horse, a splendid bay mare with glossy coat and richly fitted tack. Held still by a groom, she stamped in the chill, eager to be off while her owner climbed a mounting block and swung gracefully into the saddle. The man was swathed in a thick riding coat, a beaver hat close over his brows and he gathered the reins in strong fine hands.

If ghosts rode through the streets of London, then Sharpe knew he saw one. But unlike the creature who haunted his dreams, this was no spirit. It was a man of flesh and blood, for without doubt, and yet without possibility, it was Lord James Carlyle. The same lord who was long dead, buried far away in the dry and dusty peninsular soil.

As he watched unbelieving, the man pulled gloves onto his hands and with a casual salute to the groom was gone, urging his horse up the street without a single glance behind.

Still as one dead, Sharpe couldn't force a shout past his lips. Carlyle. The sight left him torn asunder by confusion.

Unbelieving, quite sure that he dreamt, Sharpe reached one hand to the other and deliberately pinched the skin on the back of his wrist, hard. Nothing changed. He didn't wake to the airless confinement of his room, the rider was still there. Sharpe watched painfully until the rider was one, quite proud of himself that not once did he even try and run after him; run after him and beg.

With a shuddering breath, Sharpe crouched down at the side of the street, coat-tails dragging in the filth, and taking a handful of snow rubbed it harshly across his face, hissing as the cold bit into his skin, stinging. But nothing changed, he was still awake.

And he had seen Carlyle. Alive.

Unless he had a brother. A twin.

Clumsy in his haste, Sharpe ran across the cart tracks that pitted the snow and seized the groom by his arm. "Who was that?"

"What..?" Startled by the touch, the baldly stated question, the groom could only stare at the wild man who had melting snow tangled through his beard.

"That man, the one who just rode away, what's his name?"

"Lord Ashcombe, if it's any business of yours, mister!"

The title gave him pause, but then he remembered that the father must have died, that Lord Carlyle was now Lord Ashcombe. He felt giddy, as if the world was spinning away from under his feet.

"I asked what business can it be of yours?"

"Oh, but it is, it is." Sharpe was almost feverish now, he knew he was frightening the man, but couldn't stop himself, couldn't find the calm needed to ask the question sanely. "Tell me, do you know his first names? Please, it is important..."

The man considered, feeling the tremor that ran from the scarecrow where he clutched his arm. A scarecrow whose coat had once been well cut. He summed it all up and made a decision, nodding to himself as he agreed to answer. "James, 'e stays 'ere from time to time, when 'e 'as business in town."

Sharpe swallowed and tried the only other possibility. "Do you know if he has a brother?"

"No he 'asn't, why d'you ask?"

"I thought I knew him. Thank you for your patience, thank you." Sharpe released the man's sleeve and stood quite still, a fierce pain shooting though his head. Carlyle. Alive. It could only be a jest to set the gods laughing.

"'ere, you all right?"

"I'm fine..."

"You don't look it." Pity clearly buried any wariness. There was no danger here anyway, the man was thin enough he could have blown away. "Come inside, I've a nice spot of Porter that'll set you right."

"No, no. Thank you, but I've got to go."

"It'll be on the 'ouse! Or what about a quick nip of brandy to bolster you up a bit, what d'you say?"

"I must go." But he didn't move, his legs ridiculously unwilling to obey his instructions. "I must..."

And with that he simply crumpled to the ground at the man's feet.

"Blimey..." The groom stared for a moment at the untidy heap of limbs and cloth that had landed by his boots, then shouted for a colleague to lend a hand. He cursed himself for a simpleton but, despite his muttering, dragged the unconscious man into the shelter of the stables.

*****

Sharpe came to with brandy being forced between his lips. He coughed and tried to sit, managing the colossal task with the help of a kindly hand on his back. He took a deep breath and knew he was in a stables.

"There. Better?"

Swallowing nausea, Sharpe nodded, feeling the brandy burn like bile through his gut. He finally focused on the face that belonged to the man crouching by his side. "What happened?"

"You keeled over."

"Oh." Sharpe slowly reached a hand up to his head and winced to see it shaking.

"When did you last eat something?"

"Yesterday..." Sharpe closed his eyes and battled with the sickness, vaguely trying to think. "I can't remember." His shoulders moved in what might have been a shrug.

"Billy!" At the man's shout a boy appeared around the corner of the loose box in which Sharpe lay. "Go and ask Louisa for a bowl of stew." he glanced back at his charge. "And some bread. Of you go." He waited until the boy had run off. "You'll feel better with something inside you."

"But I can't trespass on your kindness, I'll be off..."

"Don't be a fool. What's a bit of dinner going to cost me. You should see what gets sent to the pigs. Besides," the man raised an eyebrow and gave the lean a body a detailed survey, ending at the pale, strained face. "You'll never make it to the end of the road, let alone home."

Sharpe met the steady gaze for a brief moment, then looked away. "Ay, I've been neglecting things of late."

"Can see that." Sharpe's Samaritan stood up and smiled, transforming his plain, wide face with kindness. "Come on, there's a table and chairs round here. You can eat in comfort." And he reached a hand down.

Hauled easily to his feet, Sharpe gave a watery smile.

"Jack Hardy."

"Richard Sharpe. Thank you..."

"Oh, enough of that, I wasn't going to leave you to freeze to death, was I?" Jack grinned. "And you made the street look untidy. Come on." And he led the way through the back of the stables and into a room that seemed to act as tack-room and Jack Hardy's nook, for apart from the leather goods that hung from the walls there was a table, chairs, a battered armchair and a generous blaze crackling in the fire-place.

Sharpe sat at the table. Almost immediately the boy arrived with a steaming bowl, his presence preceded by a wonderful savoury aroma that had Sharpe's belly rumbling in anticipation. He stared into the dish and reached slowly for the spoon, cursing under his breath as the shake of his hand made it clatter against the earthenware.

The first taste was heaven in a mouthful. Though the meat was tender he chewed well, swallowing it down with his eyes shut, every sense focused on the blissful delight, the taste of it. Something clattered by his elbow and he opened his eyes to see a plate of bread and Jack Hardy's smiling face.

"The wife makes a nice spot of stew."

Sharpe nodded, already spooning up another mouthful. Despite the lack of verbal response, Hardy grinned wider, then settled himself in a wide backed chair, chewing on a piece of bread to be companionable.

Whilst he ate, Jack poured them both a pot of ale, taking a long draught himself and sitting back with a sigh of satisfaction. He nodded to the boy who still shuffled from foot to foot by the door. "Thanks, Billy. Go out front and give us a shout if I'm needed." Billy left without a word.

Jack waited until the bowl was wiped clean and his guest was sitting still, the ashen tinge gone from his face, replaced by a healthier colour. "Better?"

"Ay." Sharpe breathed a sigh of satisfaction, quite ridiculously content now that he was warm and fed. "That was wonderful.

"Good. Now tell me, what's your interest in Lord Ashcombe?"

Drenched with reality, Sharpe suddenly remembered, amazed that even for a short time he could have forgotten.

"I knew him in Spain."

"Does 'e owe you something?"

"Yes." Sharpe thought, then realised that Carlyle did indeed owe him - the skin of his back to start with. "I should've called him back, but I wasn't sure. Besides, I'm not sure he'd have heard me, anyway."

"You were worn to the nub." Jack Hardy nodded in understanding, and reached to fill himself a pipe of tobacco. "I'm surprised you were on your feet at all."

"I'd like to have seen him, you see, I was told he was dead."

"Enough of our lot didn't make it back." Hardy puffed to get the pipe going, holding the lighted taper close to the bowl. After a moment it was drawing to his satisfaction and he sat back, tossing the taper into the flames. "My son for one."

"I'm sorry." There was nothing else to say, but Sharpe meant what he said with absolute sincerity. He'd seen enough death, too much; yet never got hardened to the sight.

"Well, it 'appens. He bought it at some place called Corunna. I just 'ope they buried 'im proper."

It was really a question, one that sought for reassurance. Sharpe remembered the pits that were dug to take the dead, fifty or a hundred bodies to each, their uniforms stripped away, their burial as their death, without any dignity at all. He brushed the memory away and nodded. There was no reason for truth here. "Ay, they would have done."

"Thought so. My lad loved the army, I was sure they would 'ave seen 'im right."

They talked a while longer, of the war, the weather and of peace. In the end, Sharpe shared the groom's supper of bread and cheese, though he hardly touched the offered alcohol, sticking to the occasional sip of weak ale to wet his throat. He stayed because of the man's kindness and also because, when he finally left in the gathering dusk, he was in possession of directions to Carlyle's house in Kent.

Sharpe walked back to his rooms quite content. He felt renewed, full of purpose for the first time in months. He knew where Carlyle lived. The anger that had been buried deep in him for years fed on the knowledge, growing as he walked. Carlyle was alive and within reach of revenge. Sharpe almost laughed out loud.

So far away was he that he almost walked by the house he lived in, but he caught himself just in time and went eagerly up the stairs. There was a great deal to be done.

He pushed open the door to his room and stood quite still, shocked. How had it all got into such a disgusting state? Utterly revolted by the filth and mess, Sharpe wondered when he had last really looked at the condition of his lodging. Weeks, if not months before from the disarray around him.

Stripping off his great-coat and coat, he hung them on the back of the door and rolled up his sleeves. There was only one cure - hard work. He set to, first of all gathering all the empty bottles into a sack and taking them down to the yard. An hour later two more sacks of rubbish went the same way. Clumping slowly back up the stairs Sharpe cursed his own lack of fitness. A bit of scrubbing and his shirt was damp with sweat and a few flights of stairs became a mountain. And there was more to be done. He surveyed his room from the door. It looked better, but not right. He took a deep breath, wiped the heel of one hand over his face and went back to work.

A couple of hours later a fire burned in the grate, a kettle was set to boil and the entire room was finally as clean as Sharpe could make it. Hands on hips he surveyed the room, then went with firm step over to the sword he had resolutely ignored until his self-set tasks were done, and taking it over to the fire, sat.

It was a good sword. Good for killing at least, and that was what the length of steel was meant for. He turned it in his hands, letting firelight play along the blade, catch on the pits and dents in the steel. He'd long lost count of the men who had died against its edge. It was no good for anything else but killing. There was no beauty in it, a true swordsmith would have laughed his head off at the crude balance of the blade, at the ugly grip that divided the hilt. Yet for all that, it was the truest sword Sharpe had ever touched: Because of why it had been made, and who had made it. A long time ago, Harper had transformed a basic, utilitarian cavalry sword into this, and at the same time perhaps saved his officer's life. Since that day, Sharpe had never fought with another blade, nor had he wanted to.

It seemed quite apt that this should be the means to kill Carlyle. The Patriotic Fund sword could stay in hock, it was a pretty toy, but it meant nothing.

Sharpe ran his hand gently down the flat of the blade. It was dirty, pitted. He'd been a fool to neglect it. He had been a fool. There, it was simple. Well, he wasn't going to be a fool any longer. Mad, maybe - probably. But not a fool.

Standing, he went over to the table and began the long task of cleaning the sword Harper had fashioned for him, working into the early hours of the morning until the metal gleamed and the hilt sparkled as he turned it in the lamp-light. It still needed to be sharpened, but there would be a blacksmith on the way to Kent who could be persuaded to carry out that task.

Utterly weary, but oddly content he stood, stretched his back, then picking up his candle carried both it and the sword to the bed. There was a faint glimmer of light around the curtains and he realised with a start of surprise that it was close to dawn.

He snuffed the candle, put the sword by the side of the bed and stood for a long moment in the half-shadows, quite still, eyes fixed firmly on nowhere. He came back to himself with a shiver that rippled through his body like a sigh.

Carlyle.

The thought held steady in his mind, like a flame. Then, for the first time in weeks, he stripped off all his clothes and climbed into bed, shivering as the cold sheets wrapped around his limbs. Pulling the covers high over his head, leaving only his nose to brave the frigid air he settled down, closed his eyes and was fast asleep even before he knew he was warm.

*****

Sharpe slept through for five hours of the most restful sleep he'd enjoyed in far too long. He awoke filled with energy, determination singing through his veins. He didn't stop to examine any of his motives, or wonder exactly why or how it had come about that Carlyle was still alive - besides, that was going to be a short lived state of affairs anyway. In fact he thought of little at all, merely taking himself downstairs to wash and scrub under the outside pump. Half way through the process, Mrs. Moyes appeared, astonishment wide on her face, full of concern that he would catch his death from the unhealthy exposure to both cold water and fresh air. When he stripped off his filthy breeches and stood naked under the flow of water she ran away with a shriek, making the pot-boy who manned the pump giggle and Sharpe smile briefly, though in truth he hardly noticed she was there.

Clean, and wrapped modestly in a towel, he returned to his rooms, carrying with him a bowl of hot water that steamed copiously in the chill air. Resting it on the table, he shivered slightly. The fire had died down, so Sharpe added another couple of pieces of wood, crouching by the warmth until they caught, crackling and spitting as tongues of flame began to devour them.

Slowly, he scratched a finger through the thatch of hair coating his cheek. He wasn't looking forward to what he was going to do next. A long sigh added itself to the crackle of the fire and he gave a short laugh. Still, it had to be done. He stood up, wrapped the towel more firmly around his waist and went back to the table.

A cautious finger dipped and swirled, then, bending over he cupped the water up in handfuls to soak his face. It took along time and careful rubbing to soften the bristles enough, but after a while he was satisfied. Then, taking a blade, he slowly pared the beard away.

An uncomfortable time later his face was smooth, the skin pink and naked, bleeding desultorily in a couple of places where his fingers had refused to quite obey him. He peered at his reflection in the mirror and nodded; he would do.

There was quite simply no choice in what to wear. Though when he stood fully dressed with his sword strapped at his side he was ashamed to see that the uniform was no longer a perfect fit. He fingered the green cloth he had worn for so many years, very glad he hadn't thrown it to the rag-man. Though most rag pickers would have turned their noses up at the state of the old jacket and overalls, threadbare in places, holed or patched in others. The black silk frogging down the jacket was still intact, and a few silver buttons still fastened the front among the plainer lead ones.

Sharpe stood and peered at his reflection in the speckled mirror. He thought he looked the same, the weight he had lost made little difference. Carlyle would know him. Surely?

He reached up and fingered the hair that spilled past his collar. It was longer, in need of a cut perhaps, but that would have to wait. Was he the same? In the uniform he seemed to look the same, but inside he felt utterly different. Weary and full of anger all at once. Carlyle would remember him, wouldn't he?

There, that was the worst of it, the possibility that he had been forgotten. What if the time he had spent in that Spanish stronghold had only been of importance in his own mind, what if all that Carlyle had done and said had been just a way of passing time? There had been women in his own life he had slept with, spent time with, yet now he could scarcely recall their faces, let alone their names. Sharpe swallowed hard and blocked that pathway from his thoughts. Carlyle had to remember. It was impossible that it had all meant nothing.

And if it did? If Carlyle looked up and saw a stranger?

Sharpe's fingers flexed as if reaching for his sword. There were ways to deal with everything.

Pulling his great-coat over his uniform, Sharpe picked up a small pack of belongings. Most of his money, that which wasn't held in safe-keeping, was tucked into the one boot that was still completely whole. It would have to be enough. With one last look around he closed the door, unsure and uncaring if he ever came back.

He walked down the stairs with a lift to his step that had been missing for many a month. His goal was a fair distance away, but he was determined. If the roads were closed, then he'd walk. There would be a way, though they said the snow wasn't so bad to the south. That he should wait for the weather to clear not once occurred to him. His mind was set, concerned only with how far he needed to go, the state of his boots and his own stamina. Even if the roads were bad he'd manage. For nothing mattered; Carlyle was at the end of the journey.


	7. Vengeance...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Garden of England...

**PART THREE**

**Wingham, Kent. 1816**

With winter baying at his heels, it took close to three times as long as it should have done to reach into the weald of Kent; three days of hard travelling that stretched his weakened endurance to the limit and hardened his determination. Escaping London just before a blizzard closed all the southerly roads, he bought and bribed his way by coach and horse, struggled on foot, and was confounded at every turn by the weather. Persistence won. Finally he reached a village where the one man foolhardy enough to be out - a doctor hurrying to some urgent appointment and just able to spare time to answer the ragged stranger's questions - knew Carlyle by name. Satisfaction in knowing his quarry was so close to hand was enough to keep Sharpe warm, enough to make him set off on foot to walk the last few miles, careless of the dangers. Luck, however, was taking care when he did not, for a farmer, heading home, was willing to take his pony and trap two miles out of their way for the price of a silver coin. Impatient, scarcely civil, Sharpe sat wrapped deep in his coat, talked in grunts of assent about the weather and the war, and with face freezing and his hands stiffened into his pockets, waited for the miles to so slowly pass by.

It was close to dark, and storm clouds were an ominous purple on the horizon when the farmer pulled hard on the reins, for the pony was as eager to be home as he. With a curt word that offered direction and a quick farewell, waiting only until Sharpe reached his pack from the back and, stiff and awkward from the journey, put foot to the ground, the farmer was flicking his whip, urging his pony homewards. It was a night no sane person wanted to be out in, and only the seductive glint of silver coin had persuaded him to so rash an expedition. Already the wind was whipping through the trees and though sunset was still more than an hour or so away the birds were quiet, safely nested against the coming storm. With a baleful glare at the sky he cracked the whip again, heading for home without a single backward glance.

Left alone at the entrance to Carlyle's estate, standing by a great plaque set into the wall that, despite the attention of time and weather, still unmistakably said Ashcombe House. Sharpe walked to it across frost matted grass and touched the stone, fingering a crack that almost parted the words in two. At last, he was here. Pulling his great-coat tight around his body, he shouldered the pack, oblivious to the wind that clawed at his skin with icy already in its fingers.

Pillars flanked the path, both scaly with grey lichen, their lions couchant cracked, with crumbling manes and blind, pitted faces. A gatehouse loomed just behind and to the right, but its windows were boarded up, its door barred. There was no one to challenge him as he began to walk down the path, swinging into the familiar, even pace that covered ground with such ease. Part of him wondered at the desolation, knowing it to be strange, but there was little of him that wasn't intent on Carlyle.

From the road, the drive meandered first through a patch of dense woodland. If the Carlyle family had wanted to hide the existence of their house from the world, then that task had been accomplisehed. Anything could have lain unnoticed behind the oaks and chestnuts and ashes that guarded the way. An army could have hidden, though Sharpe supposed there was only a house. The drive itself was in a state of disrepair, overgrown with frost-bitten weeds, pitted so badly a carriage driving its length would have risked an axle or worse. No wonder the farmer had not wanted to come this far; Sharpe had considered it merely impatience, but perhaps he had known more than he had said. It had certainly been made clear that he thought little of his passenger - though his money was as good as an earl's - and he hadn't hidden his surprise that one such as his passenger should be visiting such an illustrious, if strange, nobleman. For strange he undoubtedly thought Carlyle; a hermit he'd called him, with words far less easy waiting on his tongue, held back only because he wasn't sure to whom he spoke.

Sharpe shrugged curiosity about the ill-kept drive away and pressed on. After a while, the woodland thinned and he finally emerged from what in spring would surely be perfect blue-bell woods, onto a slight decline. It swept the path gracefully away, through gentle curves that could be seen despite the overgrown bushes that snagged at it, across to the house. That it was such a building was only certain because part of the long roof was starkly outlined against the dying light of the day, with six great sets of chimneys rising above to twist blackly into the sky. Nothing else of the building could be seen with any ease, for here the same strange state of decay that had left the road untended and the gate-house boarded-up, had spread to the gardens, and the walls of the house were indistinct, blurred by trees and ivy, the whole deeply shadowed by the dark, almost purple storm-light that was rapidly transforming into night.

Sharpe walked on, past apple trees that hadn't been pruned in years, their branched woven together in a pattern more dense than the finest lace, past crumbling ornamental walls, past fallen trees and a single sorry pond. All the shrubbery was overgrown, the plants and bushes running wild, a battle for supremacy fought in once neatly tended flower-beds. The remains of a grand lawn rustled with tangled grasses and weeds, a sundial lay tumbled to its side, cracked and over-run with creeper.

On drawing closer to the dark edifice that emerged at the end of the path, Sharpe could finally see why it crouched, apparently hiding in the grounds, every wall was shrouded with ivy, its dark leaves as one with the shadows. Here and there lighter patches showed where a few windows remained clear of the dark mass, but most had been consumed by the thick foliage. Not a single light could be seen. Had he even known of such things, it would have been impossible to tell in which style the house had been built. As it was he knew neither how old it was, or how large, merely that it was there, housing his quarry.

If the interior was as neglected as the outside, then the place would be a ruin, barely habitable. Yet this was where Carlyle lived. Sharpe stood still and stared, oblivious of the wind that tangled the hair about his face and made the skirts of his coat snap at his heels. If it hadn't been for the anger that kept his spirit going he would have felt pity. Or something close to it. As it was he very carefully felt nothing but the preoccupation which drove him on.

Eventually he moved, though slowly, careful of his footing in the now almost complete darkness. The storm was very close, the first warnings of snow stinging his cheek as he waited, the sky ominous. Every now and then he looked up from the ground to the house, his expression quite smooth, patient and sure, until in one room, as if summonsed by his need, there appeared a light.

He almost smiled.

Certain now he went forward, deaf to the storm that was bringing a blizzard stalking behind him, seeing nothing but the light that glowed mutedly from full-length windows that were clear of foliage. Firm-footed, he walked on until, with one hand resting lightly on his sword, he came like a thief up to the window and peered through the glass.

And there found Carlyle.

Sharpe's heart missed a beat and it was as if his breath strangled in his throat. After so long, to have retribution so closely within reach. He could hear his heart beating, even over the sound of the wind rustling the ivy and whistling through the eaves; pounding loud enough to wake the dead.

Carlyle was alive. Suddenly Richard Sharpe remembered how to breathe.

The man he had loved sat before a blazing fire, a book held lightly between his hands. A branch of candles was by his side, their light casting wild shadows about a room that proved to be a library. A fire blazed in the grate and a glass and decanter stood ready by his side, as if he was settled for the evening.

Carlyle himself appeared no different. He sat upright, one ankle crossed elegantly over the other. Dressed in dark clothes that appeared to be long breeches, boots, and double-breasted coat, its buttons catching the firelight, he sat oblivious, as aloof as ever. His hair was the same, perhaps darker now it was away from the sun, but the same length, falling in the same way across his brow. The sombre, magnetic face, calm and abstracted as it was, remained just as impossibly attractive.

Sharpe, to his own shame, found the old need was still there. He had wanted so much from this man, needed... Despite the cold his body was like a flame, lust for the first time in months stirring his loins with a more than sullen interest.

It was too much. Pushed beyond endurance, Sharpe gritted his teeth and denied his flesh. Instead of screaming he took hold of the handle and pushed open the doors, bringing winter howling into the warmth, walking into the peaceful scene, bringing fury and bitter resentment as his only companions.

In the chaos of guttering candles and billowing curtains he held quite still. Then he smiled, slowly. "Hello, Jamie."

The seated man had looked up in surprise, but now that quick reaction was gone and he sat stone still, scarcely blinking, the surprise turned to a strange mix of fear and acceptance, as if a moment he had wanted, yet dreaded, finally had happened. He made no move though, merely waited, the dancing light from the fire casting him as a statue in bronze.

"What, no word for an old friend?" Sharpe let his pack slide to the floor and eyed the seated man with derision. "If you can remember who I am of course!"

"Richard..."

"Ay, just like a bad penny." Sharpe smiled, a wolf's smile and without waiting for any answer turned to close the long windows behind him, fighting the wind a moment for mastery. As the catch caught, immediately it was almost quiet, and when one of the logs on the fire cracked the seated man started visibly.

It was as if a spell had been broken and Carlyle wiped an unsteady hand over his face

Sharpe turned back, brushing the first flakes of snow from his face. "Go on, say something."

"You're alive."

"Ay, I'm no ghost."

"No ghost..." A light that might have been welcome died in Carlyle's eyes, changing to confusion. He shifted slightly in his chair, the book he had been reading falling unheeded to the floor. "Richard..." He cleared his throat, one hand clutching tight to the chair, one giving a small, empty gesture to the air. "I thought, I was told," he amended, "you were dead. A court-martial..."

Sharpe wasn't really listening. "Dead? I was dead to you the moment you laid that whip on my back. Couldn't be said no to, could you? Couldn't be honest with me about anything!"

Carlyle swallowed so hard Sharpe could hear the sound and he smiled bitterly again, as he stripped off his great-coat. "Well, if you aren't going to invite me in, I'll have to do it myself. Mister Sharpe - I'm plain mister now, chucked out the army as soon as Boney was safely under lock and key - please come in, warm yourself in front of the fire. Don't mind if I do, most gracious." He mimed a bow.

"Richard, how..?" Carlyle made no move to stand, his face reflecting his confusion, his thoughts clearly completely at sea.

"How am I here? I saw you on the street in London. Followed you here. You never did tell me where the family estates were, did you? Well, there was no need, I found you anyway."

Carlyle's eyes travelled the length of Sharpe's body, though there was only something akin to pain visible on his face. He nodded his head slowly, apparently calm, though the hand holding on to the carved arm of his chair was white knuckled. "Yes, you found me. But why?"

"For this." As he spoke, Sharpe was already moving, raising his right arm, the open-handed blow rocking Carlyle back, the sound shocking, echoing around the high ceilinged room. Sharpe stood his ground, his breath fast and light, watching coldly as the impression of his hand slowly formed on the pale skin. He blinked, then gave a twisted smile that was laden with derision. "There, that's how gentlemen do it, isn't it? A duel, nice and neat. You get the choice of weapons. Though I suppose I should warn you, I'll kill, whatever you choose."

"I..." Carlyle swallowed, and nodded as if there was no surprise in the challenge at all. But his voice was thick, stumbling, so he tried again. "I'm not sure...

"No, don't hesitate, choose now." Sharpe loomed over the seated man, the banked fury and utter implacability leaving no room for negotiation.

Carlyle closed his eyes and leant back, giving up on what he been going to say he swallowed, the muscles in his throat quite visible as they moved. "Pistols. I choose pistols."

"I thought you might, so I brought a pair with me." Turning on his heel Sharpe went back to the pack he had dropped by the door, crouching down he pulled it open and pulled free a long wooden box. He was intent, calm, utterly dispassionate, his face as austere as a judge. "They're not quite Manton's but they'll do us. One of them fires slightly to the left, but if you choose that one I'll tell you, so you can compensate." He nodded to himself and, fairness guaranteed, stood again and looked around, seeing the piles of dusty books, papers, details strangely catching his eye to be stored in his memory. A spider spun a web blithely from the mantel to the thick frame of the hunting scene that hung over the fire-place, Sharpe watched, then with a slight shake of his head turned away. "This house looks big enough, where's a place we can use? Or do you want me to start clearing the furniture in here?"

Carlyle dragged his eyes away from the dull glint of metal. "A duel..." He frowned for a moment, his thoughts clearly sluggish. He ran a hand through his hair, then gave a slow nod, raising his head to answer, slight hesitancy catching at every breath. "At the top of the stairs, the corridor... "

But Sharpe wasn't waiting for precise directions, he had taken the candles and was relighting them by the fire, the taper steady in his hand before it was tossed into the flames. Almost before Carlyle had climbed stiffly to his feet he was gone, out the door, moving lightly up the wide stairway that rose, shrouded in the accumulated dust of years, from the empty, echoing hall.

He was standing in the bitterly cold gallery, surrounded by portraits of long-dead Carlyles, stripped of his uniform jacket, the candle-light bright on the bleached madness of his face, when the one living Carlyle came to meet him.

"Here." The case of pistols was open on a once ornate, now peeled and stained, side-table. He gestured with a cold, long fingered hand. "Choose."

"Richard." This time Carlyle almost felt the flinch his use of the name inflicted. "...Sharpe, let me say something..."

"No. Choose!"

"Sharpe." Carlyle reached out and touched one shirt-sleeved arm, only to have it snatched hurriedly away as if his fingers were formed of flame. He stared at the wild anger that pursued the other man, the pulse that beat so clearly beneath his jaw, and made his choice without further delay, reaching without care for the nearest weapon with a sigh that clouded in the icy air.

Sharpe nodded as if the choice was the correct one. "Ay, well I'll have the one that doesn't quite fire true, which is just, as I've used it before." Sharpe turned away and, with hands that to his disgust somehow didn't quite hold steady, loaded the gun with powder and shot. "There." Carlyle made no move to his own, standing leaning against the wall with his eyes lowered to the narrow, threadbare carpet that paved a way across the floor. "Come, I'll load yours too." Sharpe waited, then was rewarded with a nod. This time his hands were steadier and after a moment he passed the weapon over.

"Thank you."

Sharpe gave his companion a hard stare, then looked away. He began to pace out the floor. After a few moments he returned Carlyle. "I reckon we can take ten paces each, then turn and fire. Agreed?"

Carlyle shrugged, the pistol held loosely at his side. "Whatever you wish."

The other man's indifference merely serving to add edge to his anger, Sharpe took up his position roughly half-way down the long, narrow corridor and waited without patience.

Untroubled by the other man's clear need for haste, Carlyle rested his pistol down and carefully unbuttoned his jacket, peeling it off and carelessly throwing it into a dark corner. He met Sharpe's raised brow with a slight shrug. "I wouldn't want you to be disadvantaged by not being able to see me." His waistcoat followed the same path. Then without another word he took up his pistol and went to stand at his position.

Sharpe barely waited for the other man's back to settle against his own. As soon as Carlyle's shirt brushed his he gave the word: "Now."

Ten paces, each counted out loud by a single voice. Wild shadows dancing about them, the single branch of candles their only light, they moved, the counting a steady knell that wove around their soft footsteps, around their unsteady breath. As the numbers neared the end Sharpe's voice dried and faded until the 'one', which he forced from his mouth in a half shout. He was turning on his heel, aiming even as he brought up the pistol, firing, seeing too late, far too late, that everything was wrong.

The sound of the discharge was shocking in the enclosed space, reverberating around the walls, rattling the windows, leaving his ears ringing. He waited, shocked. For there had only been the sound of one weapon firing.

Only one.

Sharpe took a breath and focused on Carlyle. It was true. The other man was standing, merely having turned about to face his opponent. The gun was held at his side. Sharpe doubted if it had ever been raised.

Yet he himslef had fired.

Sickened, glad beyond measure that he had missed, Sharpe waited.

So this was what death truly felt like. Sharpe straightened his shoulders, staring unblinkingly ahead. He wouldn't tremble, wouldn't beg. For whatever reason, he had missed, there was no chance Carlyle would make the same error. Something deep within him rejoiced.

It was as if time stretched beyond its own confines. He watched as Carlyle, with all the time in the world, slowly lifted the pistol, saw clearly the strange passage of emotions that passed across the pale, set features. Sharpe waited. But instead of aiming at his opponent's heart, Carlyle turned the barrel to one side and fired straight at the wood-panelled wall.

As the powder-smoke cleared, Sharpe finally took a breath, letting it out in an unsteady stream.

"There, are you satisfied?"

Carlyle's voice was quiet but there was no mistaking his meaning. Sharpe nodded, the anger gone, the bitterness burned to less than an echo in his soul.

"Are you?" The question was repeated very softly, almost in a whisper.

Sharpe nodded. "Ay. I missed." He raised his head as Carlyle gave a soft laugh, his eyes narrowing with acute suspicion. "And you deloped. Why?"

"Because it seemed the sensible thing to do." Carlyle wasn't laughing now. He was standing very still. "But you are wrong about one thing."

"What's that?"

Carlyle closed his eyes and the pistol fell from his fingers, to thud dully on the bare wood of the floor. His lips quirked into a sort of smile, then he took a long breath that seemed to make him wince and his words, when he spoke, come out roughened. "You didn't miss."

Sharpe started forward, finally seeing what the shadows had hidden; the dark stain that made the white cotton cling to skin. He was moving even as Carlyle crumpled slowly to the floor. Throwing his own weapon to one side, Sharpe was on his knees, at Carlyle's side without knowing how, holding the warm body in his arms, seeking the bleeding, praying, tearing his own shirt for something to staunch the dark flow that welled from a neat hole just by the line of a rib. He paused at the sight, then felt with his fingers across the smooth back. But there was no second hole to show if the lead shot had made its escape.

"Come on, you bastard, you can't be dead."

Carlyle coughed and opened his eyes. "Why not?"

"Because I won't let you."

"But it's what you wanted." Carlyle's voice was weakening, his eyes sliding closed as he lay in a careless sprawl. He sounded quite puzzled.

"Jesus, not like this." Sharpe was working hard, panic close by, tapping lightly on his shoulder. "You should have fought me fairly. Do you always cheat, you bastard?"

"Do I? Maybe..."

"And why delope, you could have had me!"

"I know." He opened his eyes and laughed, though it ended in a harsh breath of pain, his lids abruptly falling closed.

"Fool..." Then Sharpe leant forward, and caught the rancid smell of brandy. Suddenly, he knew that Carlyle was foxed, worse, he was blind, stinking drunk. "More than a fool." Sharpe ground his teeth and cursed himself for not seeing what was under his nose. "You should have told me you were drunk."

Darkly bruised eyes opened, amusement glinting behind the pain. "You didn't ask."

"Jesus!" Sharpe wiped a hand across his mouth and fought hard with panic while he tried to think what to do. The only thing he knew for certain was that Carlyle couldn't be allowed to die. There had to be someone around to help. "Where'll I find your servants?"

A slight movement could have been a shake of the head. His strength clearly fading, Carlyle whispered, "There's none left."

"None! Jesus..." One thing was for certain, he'd only bleed to death lying in the cold. "Very well, so you live in this great place on your own, so you must have a bedroom, tell me where is it?"

But it was too late, Carlyle was unconscious.

"Damn you!" Sharpe lowered the body carefully to the floor, then stood up and looked up the length of the gallery. He stood still, undecided for a moment, then taking hold of the branch of candles with a bloody hand, went in search of Carlyle's bed.

He walked swiftly to where the corridor branched, then, taking a gamble he turned right, and began to open doors. The house smelled of dust and disuse. The first two rooms were full almost to bursting with a jumble of furniture, none belonging where it was stowed. The third was empty of all but a swathe of spider-webs. He cursed and pressed on. The next was huge bedroom, empty of all but the shell of a four-poster bed, no mattress, nothing else but wood. He closed the door and tried not to become frantic. But luck was on his side, behind the fourth door he found what had to be Carlyle's room; a room that looked as if its owner spent a lot of time within its confines.

Crossing to the bed, he pushed aside the accumulation of papers and books that were strewn across both it and the table by its side before putting the candles down. There was another branch by the wall and he quickly lit them, though most were close to the nub. He'd need more candles, and hot water. Not to mention heat.

Against all hope a fire was laid in the grate. After a few moments he had it alight and though his breath caught tight in his throat with urgency, he waited until it burned brightly enough for him to place a log from the basket by the wall at its centre.

He stood and tried to think. What else, what else?

Hot water. A kettle sat on the floor and a quick look found a hook hinged to the wall inside the fire-place. His hands were shaking and he cursed his own clumsiness, filling the kettle with water from a jug, spilling some on the hearth, finally hanging it over the fire to heat, knowing it would take too long but trying anyway.

What else? He tried to think, to reason this out, but his thoughts were knotted with the impossibility of the task, and it was impossible to tear one thread free. Yet he knew he had to try. He squeezed both eyes shut, what was needed here? One answer came at once. He stood and pulled back the bed-covers, stripping them away so they wouldn't be fouled by what he was going to have to do, unsure if there would be any clean ones to replace them. And towels. But where? Why didn't the bastard have a house-keeper. He searched a press by the darkened window, found a pile of linen that would do instead and went to place it by the bed. What else? He couldn't think.

So he went to fetch Carlyle.

Taking one branch of candles to light his way, he paced alone through the empty house, turning at last to where the injured man lay crumpled and unmoving in the long narrow gallery, pale as death and almost as cold.

Sharpe took a keen breath, but laid a hand against the cool neck and sighed; life still held its own. For a long moment he kept his hand where it was, feeling the pulse, seeing the face he had dreamed of - hated - for so long; thought dead, wanted dead. Now that all he had hoped for was so close, he could only feel confusion; and know that whatever else, this man could not be allowed to die.

Spurred by the thought, yet refusing to examine it too closely, Sharpe put the candles down and, with an effort, hefted the body into his arms. Straightening unsteadily he gritted his teeth and made his way slowly away from the light, until there were only shadows and then further. As the candle-light disappeared from his peripheral sight he walked a few more steps, then at last he sighted the doorway; a thin trickle of light spilling into the hall to act as beacon.

He was shaking when he carefully placed Carlyle on the bed, his own body pushed to the limit of its endurance. But there was no time to rest. Quickly he went back to where they had fought the farce of a duel and picking up both his jacket and the candles, considered. There was one last thing. His hand sheltering the candle flames as best he could he made his way back down the stairs, through the hall and into the library. The fire had died almost to nothing, but the room was still warmer by far than any other. Briefly he considered bringing Carlyle here, then discounted the idea as the less the wounded man was moved the better. He should have thought of here first, damn it all. Sharpe bit his lip then gave up temporarily on recrimination.

The brandy was where he remembered, and that was what he wanted. The bottle was about half full; well, that would be better than nothing. He glanced around, but there was nothing else of any use. Bottle in hand, he went back to the bedroom.

Sharpe pushed the door closed with his shoulder and went to the bedside. Carlyle was breathing faster, sweat beading delicately across his brow.

It was now or never. Sharpe put the candles down and unstopped the brandy. He took a small mouthful for himself, needing it to steady his hand and harden his nerve. The rest Carlyle would need.

Leaving the bottle by the bed he went over to the fire. The water was hot enough, he gave a sigh of thanks, and most importantly the poker he had lain in the flames was begining to glow brightly at the tip. Wiping a hand over his face, Sharpe tried to think what he might have forgotten, certain there was something - probably a thousand things - but his brain was incapable of working them out.

He poured a bowl of water and took it to the bed-side table, then, settling himself on the edge of the wide bed, removed the pad he had pressed to Carlyle's wound.

The single hole was small and neat, blood still oozing from it slowly. Not that it would be neat for long. Sharpe fought grim reluctance and picked threads of cotton from the wound. It needed to be clean, he knew that much. Over the years he'd seen this sort of thing done too often, had it practised on himself more times than he cared to think about. But this was different. This was Carlyle.

He wished whole-heartedly for Harper. The Irishman would have dealt with this without a qualm. But Harper wasn't here. Sharpe took the knife from his boot and cleaned it by the simple method of pouring brandy down the blade. More of the same was dribbled into the wound, making the unconscious man gently twist. Sharpe held his breath, his eyes fixed on the strained face, but his luck held and Carlyle remained unconscious.

Holding the blade over the wound for a moment, he offered a quick prayer to whoever would listen, and tried to find his nerve. The silence was quite eerie; Carlyle's breathing harshly in counterpoint to the gentle sound of the fire and the bluster of the storm on the window panes, the house so empty around him. Quite still, he listened, the smell of blood filling his head, darkness and shadows clustering around him. There were no choices here. Not one. He took a long breath and with a steady hand, sliced neatly into the wound.

Carlyle moaned as pain battled with his stupor, but he still didn't wake. Sweat cold on his own brow, Sharpe explored with the tip of the blade, eyes closed, every sense willing steel to find lead. He was whispering under his breath a mix of nonsense and invocations, despair at his own inadequacy making his fingers clumsy. Then he felt the light return of pressure that could never come from flesh as the knife-tip touched its goal. He moved the blade and the muffled sound of metal grating against metal made him want to smile. Sharpe opened his eyes and held quite still. The shot wasn't as deep as he had feared, but slightly to one side; it must have hit a rib then lodged itself two fingers' span under the skin.

Holding his breath tight in his lungs he eased the blade around and slowly, very slowly, levered the offending piece of metal upwards, watching almost in disbelief as the small thing slid obscenely from Carlyle's side.

With a shuddering breath it was done and he held the shot in his hand.

He had no needle or thread to stitch the ugly gash closed. Fire would have to do the job in their stead. Tossing both knife and shot aside he splashed more brandy onto the wound before fetching the poker from the fire to the bed and, careful not to think at all, holding his own weight across the still body, touched the red-hot tip to the incision.

Even unconscious, Carlyle convulsed, rising to a brief moment of clarity where he looked Sharpe straight in the eye before twisting away from the pain. Sharpe had to force his own arm into immobility until all the ragged flesh was seared closed and the small vestige Carlyle had shown of coherency was once again swallowed by the dark, the body pathetically limp under his own.

His hand no longer at all steady, Sharpe carefully placed the poker back by the fire, then went back to pad the wound with a clean shirt, tearing another into strips to keep it in place. He tried not to think while he removed the remains of Carlyle's clothes and pulled the covers over his body, an endeavour that in the end proved quite easy, for his mind seemed to have gone past the point where anything had any meaning. He stood by the bed, shock setting his own body shivering. Then, clumsily, he turned and finding a window that was clear of ivy, forced the heavy frame up and painfully vomited bitter, brandy laced bile into the darkness.

An hour later he finally allowed himself to slump into an arm-chair dragged from another room. He'd briefly explored the ground floor and found in the kitchens a pump that worked. The water he had carried up to the bedroom in two pails, putting some on to heat before beginning the task of cleaning away the blood that seemed to coat himself, Carlyle and almost everything in the room. He'd hunted for food and eventually found a cheese and some stale biscuits, wolfing them down where he stood in the vast but abandoned kitchens. Exhaustion dragging at every step he'd finally returned to the bed-room, to see with a heavy sense of satisfaction the seemingly easy sleep that Carlyle had lapsed into.

The bed was wide enough, but his whole being shied away from the thought of slepping there, so he forced weary limbs into movement and went to search the nearest rooms. In one he found a raggedly upholstered chair, with the last of his strength he dragged it to Carlyle's bedside, before falling into it and closing his eyes. He needed to stay awake. But he was so tired. Beyond exhaustion, giddy with relief that there was nothing he needed to do at this moment. He settled further back, letting his head rest on the high, curved back of the chair. The storm whistled around the house, rattling the window. He didn't hear it; for the next thing he knew it was morning.

*****

Confused and momentarily bewildered, Sharpe awoke suddenly, sitting forward in his chair with a speed that made his over-used muscles protest vigorously. Muzzy headed, still heavy with lack of sleep, it took a moment for realisation to come to him as to where he was and why. He looked around, early daylight was filtering through the windows, a strange green light as if the ivy growing over the glass was trapped within it and had been brought inside. The room was a mess, a record of the last night's work, and it would need to cleared, sometime. Sharpe eyed the room, finally bringing his gaze to the bed in front of him. All confusion left him, and in its wake came the sure belief that the unmoving form in the bed was that of a dead man.

Pushing himself from the chair, Sharpe bent to hesitantly touch the pale face and almost gasped in surprise when dark eyes opened and met his.

"Carlyle!"

Carlyle blinked slowly, then licked his dry lips. "Richard... so I didn't die."

"No, no you didn't." Relief running through him, Sharpe found he was grinning like a fool and tried hard to wipe the expression from his face. "I dug the lead out of you. It wasn't too deep - glanced off a rib I think." He smiled again, pleasure that he hadn't succeeded in killing with either pistol or surgery wiping all sobriety away. "Didn't do you much good though."

"It wouldn't."

"No." Sharpe stared at the supine man as if he would devour him, noting the pale skin and the slight flush that ran across the line of each cheek-bone. He was quite hot to the touch. Too hot. With a plunge into uncertainty, he no longer felt elated. "Would you like some water?"

"Yes..."

Sharpe poured a glassful from the jug and, carefully sliding his arm under Carlyle's shoulders, raised him enough off the bed so he could drink, which he did, thirstily. Lowered back to the pillow, Carlyle closed his eyes.

With gentle fingers, Sharpe pushed the tangle of hair away from the still face. It was damp with sweat, the skin hot and clammy, for all that the room was quite chilled. Pacing over to the fire he set about rebuilding it from the ashes, waiting until a healthy blaze licked at the chimney before putting a fresh kettle of water hanging to heat. He needed more water, and food. Carlyle would need some sort of broth, something nourishing, if was to regain his health. They would need more candles, logs, seemingly a hundred things. The list of essentials multiplying in his head, Sharpe stood and with a brief, reassuring glance at the sleeping man, stepped over to look out of the window.

Where he could only stare in horror.

The storm had passed, but in its wake the entire countryside was blanketed in thick snow. There were no gardens to be seen, just a vast snowy plain stretching to the wood, where even the trees were canopied with great crusts of white.

"Jesus..." He whispered blasphemous curses to the grey skies, and wondered how on earth he was to find the things he needed.

"What is it?"

The weak voice pulled him away from the window. "Nothing, it's just been snowing."

"Ah."

"There must have been inches of it."

"Must be why it's so cold."

"There is that." Sharpe went back to the bed and watched through narrowed eyes as Carlyle struggled to keep awake. "I'll need to find some food - unless you've got some hidden somewhere that I didn't find last night."

"Try the cellar."

"A cellar, of course! Bloody stupid of me not to look for one." Sharpe softly berated himself, his eyes fixed on Carlyle's efforts to keep awake.

Carlyle blinked slowly, then licked his lips. "But I'm not very hungry..."

"You might not be, but I'm bloody starving. I'll be back as soon as I can." Don't die while I'm gone.

"I'll be here." And Carlyle slipped gently back into sleep.

Sharpe sighed. He watched the sleeping man, seeing a thin face with strong features. With his eyes closed, Carlyle seemed far less dangerous, less problematic to Sharpe's composure, than he was with them open. Those eyes saw too much, understood too much. Just like the man. It had been luck, in a way, that Carlyle had been drunk when Sharpe came looking for him, for if he had been sober, then the outcome would have been very different. They would probably have killed each other downstairs amongst the mildewed books. Or Carlyle would have manipulated it all in some way, and Sharpe would have gone back to London still full of the rage and bitterness he had carried for so long. All of which had now melted away. It was foolish to have let this man ruin his life. But then he knew himself for a fool, so why the surprise? There had been a time - a very short time, true - when he had thought Carlyle held all the future he needed in his hands.

Sharpe laughed dryly to himself. Standing watching the sick body of the man he had tried to kill, he knew himself released from the past.

Now all he had to contend with was the present. The future he couldn't even begin to consider.

He laughed again, the sound almost silent, the humour obscure even to himself. It had been too long since he had eaten, the world was starting to become a great joke. Lightheaded, he turned away from the bed and, closing the door firmly behind him, went in search of the cellar.

*


	8. life...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> real life...

*

The house looked very different in daylight, though with ivy covering almost every window the interior was still shadowed. Sharpe walked back down the long gallery, wincing as he saw the great scar in the panelling that Carlyle's shot had left, and went on, down the wide staircase. Now that the storm was over it seemed, if possible, even colder. Sharpe retrieved his great-coat and pack from the library and set off to try doors.

Walking through the gloomy house he ignored the living rooms and headed straight for the kitchens. There, he tried once again to find something edible in the empty shelves and cupboards. Apart from more of the same cheese he had dined on the previous night, there was nothing.

Onward. Through long, narrow servants' hall-ways he went, finding rooms he couldn't guess the use of, finding disuse, dirt and a fine collection of rusting cooking pans. Collecting one that had miraculously escaped either rust or an encrustation of old food, he added it to his pack. In one room he found, much to his relief, a consignment of candles packed neatly in straw. He took a bundle with him and dragged the rest into the hall so he return for them later without having to look past all the same-looking doors again.

It would be an easy place to get lost in. Lost and unnerved, for the curious light that filtered through the ivy covered windows could do strange things to a fanciful imagination.

The maze of corridors turned to the left, and he knew he must be heading back to the main kitchens. He was running out of doors to try, and just as he about to be certain that the cellar was certainly a figment of Carlyle's own imagination, he found it.

The open door gave onto a pit of absolute darkness. But a storm lamp and flint were at the ready on a ledge just inside. It took a moment to light the candle, but immediately the stairs sprung into life and he could see. Carefully, not at all believing that the bare old wood would support his weight, he made his way down, his cracked leather boots tentative on each step, the light opening up the way before him.

In a short while he found out that the cellars were vast and, what was more important, they housed a complete treasure trove. At the foot of the stairs were rack upon rack of wine, the bottles caked in dust, but the liquid inside glinting with promise against the candle-light when he held one of them up. After replacing it, the dust on its dark surface now disturbed by trails from his fingers, he wiped his hand on the skirt of his coat and went on. Tucked into a niche in the brick wall there were a couple of barrels what was stamped as local brewed ale, another one of porter, and two smaller ones of brandy. At least he could drink himself to oblivion, if all else failed. Food was less visible though, and he pressed on.

The cellar branched where the wine racks ended, the right-hand fork opening up to a room full of various bits and pieces, things the household at one time or another had considered too useful to throw away, yet not worth storing in a more convenient place. Sharpe glanced quickly over the confusion of rubbish, and pulled at a chest to see what was behind it, in the process disturbing a couple of rats which he kicked away with a mild curse. He rooted around for a while, but there was nothing useful. There was no use he could think of for a steamer large enough to poach a turbot in, nor work out a way to utilise the ornate and hideously ugly table centre-piece that seemed to depict in graphic detail the deflowering of a group of women by a band of creatures formed of part man, part horse. He grinned at the sight, patted some curves, and moved on.

Retracing his steps, he took the other fork and found in the narrow corridor two more doors. Behind the first he finally found where the wood was stored. The room was large enough to hold a chopped forest, deep and with a trap-door to allow the logs to be delivered. A line around the walls showed where the stocks must once have reached to, though there was comparatively little left. What there was would be enough to last until after the thaw. Collecting some into a bundle he left it ready to take with him, and went to open the last door.

There, finally, he found something edible. There wasn't much, and most was well past its best, but it was food; a good few pounds of wrinkled potatoes, a handful of shrivelled onions and a mess of unrecognisable vegetables too rotted to be of use to man or beast. But amongst the depressing sight there was one prize - an untouched ham, hanging up high and safe from the rats, making Sharpe's belly rumble at the mere sight. He started it sliced, great pieces of it, pink and tender, so savoury, and had to stop, for the room started to spin around him and there was no time for weakness. At least he now knew they wouldn't starve. The food wouldn't last long, but long enough, with luck.

Bundling potatoes, onions, and a couple of woody parsnips into a sack he hefted it along with his pack onto his shoulder, taking the ham from its hook and tucking it under one arm he made his way up through the house, climbing the stairs slowly, glad beyond measure at the food he carried back to Carlyle.

The wounded man was still asleep, the unhealthy flush slightly more pronounced. Sharpe stood by his side long enough to rest a hand against his cheek and feel the sick man press towards the respite of cold fingers.

His own reaction was far too strong, too sentimental and he pulled away, denying it. Pausing only to steal a knife-slice of ham, he busied himself with the task of going back to fetch a pail of water from the pump in the kitchen and then sorting out the goods he had foraged for downstairs. He scrubbed and, sliding his knife from his boot, chopped potatoes, an onion, and a couple of turnips, tossing them all into heating water to cook. There was a screw of salt in his bag, but the ham might add salt enough. He hoped so, the salt was all there was and he wasn't at all sure when it could be replaced. Though quite what else he would be cooking he wasn't sure. Perhaps he could set some traps. There had been some wire in the cellar and rabbits would be easy prey in the snow. He could try and shoot something, though unless he found a shotgun of some sort, trying for game with a duelling pistol had little appeal, though if necessary he would do so. Likeliest of all was a call on a neighbouring farm-house. A trapped rabbit for the pot in exchange for some home-made bread, now, that would be good.

As the stew cooked, the savoury aroma filled the room and his stomach churned needily. To distract himself he went back to Carlyle, and found him in one of his brief periods of wakefulness, struggling to get out of the bed.

"What are you up to?"

Half sitting, Carlyle held still, a frown deep between his brows.

Sharpe was at his side, unsure. "What do you need?"

"Richard..."

"What?"

"I'm trying to find the chamber-pot."

"Oh."

"It's becoming rather pressing..."

Sharpe nodded and with quiet efficiency helped Carlyle, then assisted him back into the bed where he lay, breathing unsteadily.

"Better?"

"Mmm. Did you find anything downstairs?"

"Ay, the cellar." Sharpe rubbed a hand over his stubbled cheek and grimaced. "There wasn't a lot of use in it. Found a ham though."

Carlyle looked vague for a moment, then his expression cleared. "I remember, Tom Jenkins sent it over. I forgot why."

"Maybe this Jenkins bloke was trying to keep you from starving to death." Sharpe raised a brow pointedly. "Anyway, I'm cooking up some broth for you. And don't look like that, it'll do you good."

"I'm not very hungry." Carlyle took a deep breath and winced as his body clearly protested the movement.

"Be still." Sharpe was at his side, concern lining his face, a hand lacing through the hot fingers that lay outside the covers.

"Yes." Carlyle closed his eyes briefly, then opened them, staring directly at Sharpe. "Why do you care?"

Caught without a reason he could easily defend, Sharpe merely shrugged.

"You came here to kill me, I know you hate me."

Sharpe cleared his throat and tried to remove his hand but it was held too tight. Leaving it where it lay, he shook his head, forcing words from his own recalcitrant throat. "How? How do you know that."

"You told me so." Carlyle turned his face away. "And I know you must. Once I saw you, knew you lived. How could you not?"

Sharpe ignored the question. "Who told you I was dead?"

"Hogan."

"The bastard!" Sharpe shook his head in utter disgust, swept by a fury so intense that he shuddered. "If I'd known..." No, there was no hope there. Sharpe licked his lips and tried again. "He told me you died when they took your stronghold. Shot by one of your own men."

"I was. But I lived, the wound was nothing. By the time I recovered, you were dead. Or so I thought." Carlyle closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them when most of the pain wouldn't show. "So you came back here, there was nothing left for me in Spain."

They were silent for a time, then Sharpe helped his companion to a drink of water laced with a good shot of brandy.

Carlyle lay back with a gasp, the fever burning bright in his eyes. "So, why do you stay now?"

Sharpe shrugged, turning his face slightly away. "I wouldn't let a dog die the way you would've done; alone and bleeding like a stuck pig."

"So defensive, so defensive." Carlyle closed his eyes and almost smiled. "It doesn't matter. I'm glad you stayed." This last was just a whisper, for he was already asleep.

Sharpe slipped his fingers from the loosened grip, and stood straight, staring at the man on the bed, seeing pictures from the past: a man dancing alone in the firelight, all pride and dignity; a lock of hair hidden behind the image of a woman; the whipping-post, Carlyle's face spattered with blood that was not his own. There had been more happiness than he had ever known, more pain - though perhaps that was fair, payment for the good times. Now there was what?

Hope, perhaps. The past dead and buried at the very least.

As long as Jamie lived.

Sharpe reached down and cupped the face his dreams had remembered more times than had ever seemed fair. Jamie. He could think of Carlyle as that again. Maybe one day he would even call him by it. He let his hands fall away, but he remained still, watching. The freckles were stark across the strong nose, the wide mouth drawn into a thin line, a flush betraying the fever as it begun to run unchecked through his blood. Sharpe found himself trying to will health into the man, trying to break the fever with the strength of his own determination. For Carlyle would live.

He had to.

*****

An hour later the room smelled appetizing enough to tempt a dead man. Sure that Carlyle was still asleep, Sharpe spooned some of the stew into a bowl and ate ravenously, scarcely pausing long enough for the food to be cool enough not to burn his mouth. It was nearly a soup, the vegetables having broken up and the pieces of ham fallen apart, but it tasted of heaven and steadied the slight shake that threatened the steadiness of the room every time he stood up.

Finally done, the bowl scraped clean, he spooned out a second portion, much smaller and this time he broke up whatever lumps of parsnip and potato remained with the back of the spoon before taking it over to the bed, setting it down before gently touching Carlyle's shoulder.

"Hey, wake up, I've made something for you to eat."

At first there was no reaction, then Carlyle stirred listlessly and came awake, his eyes showing confusion, doubt, then finally recognition. "Richard..."

"Don't sound surprised to see me, I'm not going anywhere!"

"Good." Carlyle blinked, then began to push himself up.

"Wait a bit!" And Sharpe was there easing him upright, settling the pillows behind his back.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Sharpe smiled, guilt hidden, though imperfectly disguised. "Now, If I hold the bowl do you think you can manage?"

As the stew was lifted towards him, Carlyle grimaced. "I really am not very hungry."

"But you have to eat something, and this is all there is." He stirred the spoon about. "Come on, just a mouthful."

Carlyle saw the concern and understood. "Very well..."

But he only managed three mouthfuls before his stomach rebelled. Afterwards, he lay back, gasping, a hand held to his side.

"Sorry."

"Jesus, it should be me apologising." Sharpe put the hastily reached for pot back onto the floor and tried to still the erratic beat of his own heart. "You did say you weren't hungry..."

"I did..." Carlyle smiled weakly and reached out a hand to touch Sharpe, his face expressing discomfort but also a certain mild amusement at it all. "But thank you."

"Next time, just insist, and I won't force you." Sharpe breathed out deeply, and shook his head bitterly. "I'll kill you with kindness as quick as any other way."

"No, don't say that!"

"It's the truth though. I've no idea what to do! You need a physician - a surgeon, not a cack-handed soldier with no more idea than.. than a..." He broke off, lost for words, a slight flush staining his pale cheeks. "You know what I mean."

"Yes. But you got the bullet out, and I'm still breathing."

"Ay." It was grudging, the assent, but after a while Sharpe nodded. "Ay, you are at that. And I'll try and keep it that way."

"Thank you." Carlyle closed his eyes with a sigh.

Sharpe held still, feeling the dry heat that burned where Carlyle's hand rested against him. He reached out and ran his fingers across it, the hand and wrist were dry and hot to his touch, like parchment about to burst into flame. "I'm going to have another look at your wound."

"Be my guest." The words were muttered quietly, Carlyle clearly beyond care.

Sharpe fetched water, and then gently eased the cotton dressing away. The ragged hole in Carlyle's side was livid, puffy and inflamed. Working intently, Sharpe cleaned it again and rebandaged the whole with clean strips from one of the torn up shirts. Even before he had finished, Carlyle had drifted off to an troubled sleep, though when the weight of Sharpe's body left the bed the sick man murmured, tossing his head restlessly from side to side. A single touch on the brow stilled him, and after a while Sharpe walked uneasily back to the fire.

He stared for a long time into the flames. Then, stirring himself, added more wood, careful of the supply but needing to keep the room warm.

Back at the bedside, he briefly rested his hand on a shoulder, bringing Carlyle momentarily awake. "I'll be back soon, rest easy."

But there was no recognition in the darkly shadowed eyes, none at all. Sharpe let his hand fall to his side. Carlyle breathed some words, but there was no telling what they may have been, then his eyes slowly closed.

Gathering all the stained cloths, the bloody water and the bodily waste into one bucket, picking up the dirtied bowls, and hooking his pack over one shoulder, Sharpe took a look around the room to reassure himself that all was well. The guard was in place before the fire and the man in the bed slept. He nodded, and went in search of whatever sanitary arrangements the house might provide.

There was nothing fancy, just a cesspit dug to one side of the house. It was covered over by a lean-to and almost disguised by the bank of snow the wind had pushed up against it. Luckily, it was nowhere near full, so that was at least one thing he wouldn't have to worry about.

In the kitchen yard there was a standing pump, but despite his best efforts it remained frozen solid, so he had to go back into the scullery and use the one there, thankful that the drain was clear. Methodically, he cleaned all the crockery and the bowl he had used for water when he doctored Carlyle's side. Then, with a bitter curse at the cold, stripped off his own clothes and washed as well he could in the stone sink, ducking right under the pouring water until at last he felt clean, even if he seriously doubted he would ever be warm again.

Without lingering, he dried himself and, pulling clean linen from his pack, dressed in shivering haste. Despite being cold, he felt immeasurably better.

Buttoning his jacket he wandered back into the main kitchen and stared around him. There was no way he was going to get any of this working. The fire-place was big enough to spit-roast an ox and the range looked beyond his capabilities even to light. The small fire upstairs would have to be enough. Besides, Carlyle himself must have been using it, as the kitchens looked as if they had last seen service before Bonaparte first cast his acquisitive eye at Russia.

Opening a few doors, he poked around without much enthusiasm but found nothing he had not already discovered. Cutting a large piece of cheese, he popped a bit in his mouth and, chewing contentedly began to collect together all the things he needed to take back upstairs. With his hands occupied, his thoughts travelled in circles around the chaotic events of the past few days. For what quirk of fate had let him see Carlyle in London at all? To have seen him at all, to have recognised him, even when he was riding away. Sharpe shook his head in bemusement. Another hour, another minute, and he would maybe forever have been ignorent of Carlyle's continued existence. He remembered the moment of recognition, the pain of it, the hope that had flared before being ruthlessly extinguished. To see him, but only when riding away...

Riding.

The thought was a nudge to his memory. All at once he knew that somewhere there had to be stables, and somewhere Carlyle's horse was probably starving to death. Idiot, he berated himself.

Pulling on his great-coat, he went out into the cold. With a simple choice of right of left he chose to try to the left. He followed the building along, past the ruins of a kitchen garden - where later he thought he might try digging for any roots that had survived the frost and snow - past what seemed to be the bare foundations of a part of the house now demolished, stones and shards of it sticking sadly through the snow, to just where the house ended, and there, about two hundred yards away, he found the stables.

He trudged across the expanse of snow, breath crystalising in the thick air, and found himself walking through a cobbled yard, bordered on two sides by buildings. In one was set a a pair a doors, and going up to it, he slipped the icy bolt, pushed hard until the wood gave, then stepped inside. Someone had cared for the wellbeing of his animals. The stables were fine and airy, with high windows to give light and five loose-boxes running down each side of the central area. Sharpe stared at it all with a lowering sense of dismay; if there was a horse in each of them there was no way he could look after them all. Even if there was enough fodder, which seemed unlikely. One by one he stared into each stall, walking along, boots ringing dully on the stones which paved the floor, he paced on, thankful to realise that they were all, except for the last, empty. Inside that last one he found the bay Carlyle had been riding in London.

Sharpe murmured to her, and quietly unbolted the door to step inside. The mare turned her head to him, dark, intelligent eyes quite curious, but not unfriendly. He stroked flanks and, with a slight nod to caution carefully made his way to the mare's head. She snorted companionably, and Sharpe smiled. "All right, lass!" He rubbed his fingers down the lighter patch that marked the nose, pleased at the softness and the way she butted at him in a companionable way. The horse had been quite happy, and hay hung from a basket hooked into the corner of the stall. Someone was looking after her, and the sight made Sharpe frown, for there was no way Carlyle could have placed it there. There was enough for a day at most. "You're set fine, aren't you. So, whose been seeing to your feed then? He said all the servants were gone, but did he mean it? Not that I've seen sign of anyone around here."

The horse nudged at him again, snorting into his chest.

"I know, I know. But he'll be up and about soon. I hope. I don't think I've killed him yet!"

Stating the thought out loud made Sharpe inexpressibly happy, and he pulled on one of the dark ears, laughing as the horse pressed closer for more. "I know!" He scratched for a while longer, both of them quite content.

"I'll have to go, you know. He might be wondering where I've got to. Probably thinks I'm stealing the family silver...." He grinned. "If there is any. I haven't seen much sign of luxury round here, but maybe he's just miserly, eh?"

With a last pat, and not waiting for an answer, Sharpe stepped out of the stall and re-fastened the bolt. He whispered a good-bye. Instead of heading back the way he had come, just on a whim, he walked to the far end of the stable-block and went out of the door there.

In the snow he found part of an answer to his questions. Footprints led both to and from the building, tracing slightly unsteadily towards the woods. So Carlyle had someone from the village to look after his horse. Maybe some farmer's son. Sharpe nodded in approval. At least it meant one less thing for him to worry about himself.

In an almost contented frame of mind he walked back to the kitchens and, stamping the snow off his boots, gave a sigh of relief, for even the unheated room was warmer than the outside. Rubbing his hands together to warm them he took a last look around, then collecting all his gear, set off for the sick-room.

He walked back to the hall with an easy stride, his boots sounding dully on the old wood floors. A long forgotten feeling swept over him, and it took a moment before Sharpe realised that it was contentment. Despite the worry that nagged incessantly at his thoughts, he wanted to be here. Even caught as he was between hope and memory, it was enough just to be here. He knew Harper would laugh.

It was coming up to dark, the day so short this deep into winter. What he needed to do was to set candles around the house so if evening ever caught him by surprise then he'd have light. Not that he really thought he get lost, but just in case. Tomorrow, he'd see to that tomorrow.

He stepped into the hall, pulled the door to the servants' area closed behind him and began to head for the stairs. He took just three paces before what he saw in the gloom made him hold stock still, his brain completely refusing to believe what his eyes told him.

For there, at the foot of the stairs, somehow half-clothed in shirt and breeches, was Carlyle. He was sprawled across the floor and for all the world looked quite dead.

"Jamie..."

Sharpe's own single, whispered word broke him free of the shock that held him captive. Letting everything he carried fall to the floor with a clatter, he ran to the still figure and was kneeling at his side.

"Jamie..." He reached out and touched. Alive, and burning up with fever. Blood was soaking through his shirt, dripping onto the boards of the floor. For a dreadful moment, Sharpe was bereft of any coherent idea of what to do. He stroked his fingers through the sweat darkened hair and wished he'd never set eyes on this man in London. Never come here. Never realised that the hatred he'd carried in his heart for so long was so close to love.

But they were all idle wishes.

What was real was here. And dying.

Somehow Sharpe managed to lift the inert body into a sitting position and he paused there, gathering strength, knowing that Carlyle was not a light weight, to find the man in his arms looking at him.

"Richard Sharpe."

"Ay." Sharpe tried to smile at the accusation, but had to give up. "That's me."

"You went away."

Sharpe shook his head. "No, I just came down here to clean up. I did tell you."

"You weren't there..."

"I'm sorry!" Sharpe swallowed hard and muttered a curse under his breath. He shifted and began to lift, knowing the movement would hurt the other man, hating to even think about the state his wounded side would be in after all this. "Did you fall down the stairs?"

"I didn't want to flog you, but I had to."

"Never mind about that now." Sharpe winced, not wanting to think about that, not wanting to even acknowledge it had happened. "Just rest, you'll soon be back in bed."

"No." Carlyle wits were wandering, his thoughts lost somewhere else. "No, I did want to. I wanted to punish you for being able to leave me. For being too strong." He gave a small laugh, the sound quite harsh. "You bled so much. Afterwards, I was like Lady Macbeth, washing my hands because every time I put my hand to my face I could smell your blood; feel it ingrained into my skin."

"Don't talk like this! You didn't kill me."

"No." Carlyle shuddered, almost imperceptibly. "I couldn't...such a coward."

"Well, I for one am glad you didn't have me shot."

Carlyle blinked. "But you died anyway."

Sharpe heard the strength in Carlyle's voice begin to slip away. Carefully, he stood up. "No, not me - I'm here. Now keep quiet and I'll get you back to bed." He started up the stairs, the burden awkward in his arms. He was sweating after a couple of steps.

"I've dreamed of you, Richard Sharpe. Night after night until I thought I would go mad." The voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible, the thready whisper muffled by the wool of Sharpe's coat. "Even your ghost is more comfort that my own company." His voice changed, becoming weaker. "After all that time when you sat with me night after night, only to then go away. I went looking for you, you know. Didn't find you...glad you came back."

"I'm not a ghost, a ghost couldn't carry you like this." Sharpe reached the top of the stairs and rested for a moment, breathing hard, his breath clouding the air with every exhalation. "A ghost couldn't bloody well shoot you."

He shifted the way the body lay in his arms and sighed in relief as Carlyle's head fell back. Out cold again. "Thank Christ for that..."

He pushed on, trying not to see the dark stain that spread so with the slow inevitability of ink spilled on soft paper across the crumpled white of Carlyle's shirt: the pallid skin that burned so to his touch; the long line of vulnerable throat, and the erratic pulse, beating so faintly against the stretched skin.

It was a long way to the bedroom, further than he thought possible as with each step he feared for his burden's life. The weight that tore at the muscles of his shoulders and made his knees burn with effort, but the burden he carried in his arms was not near as heavy as the weight that lay on his heart. He rested for a very brief moment at the end of the gallery, propping his back against the wall, afraid that without that small respite he would topple his charge to the floor, finish him off by weakness as his attempt with a bullet had failed. Finally he staggered on, sweat trickling in cold runnels down his skin, his face almost as white as the one tilted back across his arm, until he was there, the muscles in his arms and legs quivering with effort as he carefully placed Carlyle back on the bed. Clumsily, Sharpe straightened the long limbs, stripping off the clothing that the sick man must have struggled so hard to put on. The covers he pulled as high as he could, though Carlyle tried to kick them away, the fever burning dry and hard through his stupor.

There was nothing Sharpe could do but keep the wound clean and Carlyle warm. Carefully, he washed the blood away. The ragged hole was a mess again. Briefly, he considered recauterising it, but in the end he didn't dare, unsure if that original treatment was in fact the cause of this fever. He chewed his lip. There had to be needle and thread somewhere.

He weighed up the odds and decided that it was worth the risk. If Carlyle came round before he returned, then... well, then he wasn't sure what would happen. But he had to look for the tools he needed.

Heading downstairs at a run, coat-skirts flying behind him, he went first to the wreck of a drawing-room, certain he had seen something that might be what he was looking for. The snow was still there, piled inside through the broken glass, spilling across the rotting Turkey carpet. He paced around, and there, by the ottoman was an ornate sewing box, the kind no woman he had ever known would use. Sharpe remembered the lady in the miniature, remembered her for the first time without bitterness, and wondered if the inlaid box had belonged to her, to Carlyle's wife. She had looked elegant enough to own something this beautiful. Well, if it had been hers, and whether she was alive or dead, he hoped she would appreciate the use one of her needles and a length of her fine silk was about to be put to. Picking a few other things out of the box he closed it with a snap, and was already standing, turning on his heel, mouth set in a grim line of absolute determination as he raced back through the shadowy house

*****

Some time later, absolutely how long he was never sure, Sharpe had the last stitch knotted into place and he snipped the brandy-soaked thread with a pair of scissors fashioned quaintly into the shape of a diving bird. This time the repair would hold. As long as Carlyle didn't go around trying any more tumblers' tricks. At least this time it truly was clean, for Sharpe had drawn a thin twist of cotton from the wound; a scrap of Carlyle's shirt that he had missed when cleaning it before. Hopefully its removal would be enough.

He traced a finger over the wound, scarcely touching the heated skin, so deep in frowning concentration that he jumped when an ice cold hand grasped his wrist.

"Jamie!"

"Why can I touch you?"

Startled almost out of his wits, it took Sharpe a moment to understand. He opened his mouth, trying to think of what to say, but Carlyle was there first.

"Richard... It is you?"

"Ay, it's me. No, lie still, don't try and sit." He winced as fingers dug into his skin with uncanny strength and Carlyle tried to pull himself upright. "Jamie, you mustn't, stay..."

"But I can feel you... touch you. How is this?" Carlyle suddenly stilled. "Is it because I too am dead." He seemed to consider, then smiled, a slow smile that grew to a blaze of unnerving happiness. "Richard, is it true?"

"No, stop such nonsense! We're both alive, though you won't be if you don't hold still and stop bleeding. Damn it..."

Somehow he fought the sick man and held him, ending lying on the wide bed, an arm around Carlyle's shoulders, one hand held firmly in his own. "Now keep still." Sharpe gritted his teeth to hold the determinedly slippery body quiet, but all at once all the fight drained away, leaving Carlyle heavy in his arms. He muttered a prayer and lay still, breathing hard himself, his forehead on the bony curve of Carlyle's shoulder.

When Carlyle whispered something, something too soft for him to hear, he moved slightly. Shifting, he stared into the candle-lit face, his belly twisting at the sight. Carlyle was very pale, the lines around his dark-shadowed eyes drawn deep, the bones of his face stark, his breath shallow and uneven. Sharpe cursed. "Don't die on me, damn you."

Carlyle stirred, blinking unseeingly, his voice was rough, slow. "You can't damn me. I'm damned already." He gave a small smile of triumph. "Why else do you haunt me?"

Sharpe could have howled in frustration; just how did you convince someone that you were not a ghost? "Carlyle, I'm flesh and blood, the same as you - feel me." He pressed closer and gave the shoulders a gentle shake.

There was sweat trickling down the sick man's skin, his face ice cold to the touch. He was shivering again, confusion painting his proud face with doubt and pain. "Do I truly live?"

"Yes!"

"And you are dead."

"No, sweet heaven, can't you understand." It seemed more important than anything to get Carlyle to fathom that they both lived, as if everything depended on that simple fact. If Carlyle knew he lived, then he would remain so, if he doubted it... No! Sharpe refused to consider that.

"Listen to me. Jamie!"

The hooded eyes opened slowly at the sound of the long unused name, though there was little other than fever in their depths. After a second they cleared and he answered quite distinctly. "I'm listening."

"You do know who I am."

"Richard Sharpe."

"Good." Sharpe smiled encouragingly. "Am I alive?"

Doubt creased a furrow between the fine brows. Carlyle shook his head slowly. "No." He paused, then took a deep, uneven breath. "They killed you; strung up by a rope, so Hogan said."

"Hogan was a lying, devious bastard. The hanging was a ruse, a carefully set up plan to fool an enemy. See, no noose mark." He tilted his head back and shifted so the light played on his throat, waiting until Carlyle's eyes registered the fact with a frown of confusion and a hand came up and traced lightly over the smooth skin.

"Maybe ghosts carry no scars."

"Ghosts may not, but I do." Triumphant, Sharpe held up a wrist that had an old mark across it, but the light was too weak and he cursed. With a shrug he was out of his coat, slipping the overalls straps from his shoulders and pulling his shirt free. With a twist of his torso he took hold of Carlyle's hand and drew it to his back, making him touch the scars. "Feel? Believe me - I am no ghost."

Sharpe felt the fingers drag uncertainly across his skin and waited.

"Alive..." The single word was so full of wonder.

Not even simple assent could Sharpe make pass his own lips, so he simply nodded.

"Alive. So you are." The hand dropped away and Sharpe took it in his own, tucking it back into the bed. Carlyle was slipping away into fevered sleep, but as he went, he whispered one word: "Good."

It was too much. Sharpe stood quickly and went over to the hearth, bending his head towards the flames, one arm leaning hard on the mantle. In the dark heart of the fire he watched a shadowplay of the past, seeing the mistakes build one upon another, right up to the sham of a duel.

And still Carlyle could say it was good that he lived. Knuckles against his teeth he cursed softly, fluently. Though quite where he would have changed his decisions, if given them to make again, he was unsure. Indeed, the only fact of which he was certain was that he revelled in Carlyle's pleasure at his own continuing life.

Perhaps after all, something could be salvaged from the wreck of their lives.

He blinked into the flames, and bit hard on his own skin, feeling the bone. Closing his eyes, feeling the heat against his bare chest, Sharpe swallowed hard. Then, curling a lip at his own thoughts, turned back to the fevered man in the bed.

Carlyle was exactly where he had been before, lying flat, restless and shivering even in what pretended for sleep. Sharpe stood for a long while, just watching. Then he turned, finding blankets to heap on the bed before going back to the fire, to bank it high. He drank some water himself and ate a few mouthfuls, the cold stew tasting of nothing in his mouth.

The fever was worse when he returned.

For a long time he stood, blinking occasionally, face expressionless. Then, snuffing all but two candles which were right by the bed, he kicked off his boots and stripped. Naked, he waited the space of a dozen heartbeats. Then, lifting the covers, he slid into the wide bed, drawing Carlyle as close as he dared.

Almost immediately the racking shivers eased. Carlyle muttered something unintelligible, his head twisting uneasily on the damp pillow.

"Shh..." Sharpe soothed softly with his voice, his hand rising to stroke unsteadily through tangled hair. When the shivering began again he was ready, bracing the long body with his own, careful of the wounded side, of everything, as he fought the fever the only way he knew how.

It was a battle of sorts. One he felt as unprepared for as a new recruit, but one he refused to lose.

All through the hours he whispered words of encouragement, until his mouth was dry and his voice hoarse. He wiped the hot, burning face with a cloth, held tight when the shudders threatened to toss them both to the floor. He talked of everything, just using words, from lyrics to old songs Hagman had sung and verse Harris had recited, to list of soldiers' names, both the living and the dead, British and Irish, Spanish, Portuguese, French, even Indian. List after list, word piled upon word to build a wall Carlyle's soul could not escape through, anything to keep him. Sharpe fought with every weapon he possessed, holding Carlyle to this world with utter determination.

Then, after quite how long Sharpe was never certain, though the candles had guttered and fire sunk into the palest embers, the awful bouts of shivering faded away and sweat, clean, healthy sweat, broke out on every inch of Carlyle's body. He woke briefly, blinked up at Sharpe's face. Then, with the seed of a smile in his eye, he slept.

Lost for words Sharpe held still, hardly daring to believe it might be over. Though sweat-damp, Carlyle's skin was warm to the touch. Not hot nor cold - just warm. Sharpe sighed softly, and wincing as he moved muscles locked tight with immobility, untangled his legs from Carlyle's and pulled back, preparing to climb out of the bed. But a soft movement stopped him, and he lay back, resting his head close to the other, holding his hand in his own.

In truth he meant to only stay a short while, but exhaustion betrayed his intentions, and without even realising that it was already tomorrow, that the long night had passed in the fight for Carlyle's life, he drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

*

Carlyle was watching him when he awoke.

Sharpe blinked slowly, searching for any memory at all that might explain why he was here. Then the remnants of sleep slipped away and he knew.

He knew that all was well.

"Morning." Sharpe coughed on the word, his voice as unwieldy as rusted chain.

Carlyle's eyes narrowed into a smile. "Good morning."

"How are you feeling?"

"Better." Carlyle considered for a moment, clearly taking slow inventory. "Much better. Something I believe I should thank you for."

Sharpe shook his head very slightly in negation. Neither man commented directly on the fact that they were in bed together.

Carlyle let the smile spread to his lips, showing a glint of teeth.

"How long have you been awake?" Sharpe began to sit up as he spoke, but a hand stilled him. He lay quite still, watching its bony strength against his shoulder. A wave of yearning swept over him and he denied it, trying to see the hand as an object, not as part and parcel of something he had denied himself right to have. The fingers were strong, though there was too little flesh on it. On all of Carlyle in fact; the bones around his neck were near skeletal... No. Reaching up he raked through his disordered hair, dislodging the hand as he did so, finding breath easier as a result.

"A while."

"You should have woken me."

"No, I enjoyed watching you. And I'm too sleepy to do much."

"Can I get you anything."

A lazy blink, then, "No, I drank some water, used the chamber-pot." Carlyle stretched slightly, feeling his body as if it was forged anew. "I'm quite content."

Sharpe looked at him, and believed it. His skin was beginning to regain its natural health, his eyes were clear. Apart from his thinness, and the dark marks like thumb-bruises under his eyes, he looked like something approaching nearer to health than death. Sharpe nodded. "Good."

"Though I wouldn't mind a wash sometime. I stink."

Sharpe grimaced. "That surely makes two of us."

"Maybe." That look again.

"I'll get the fire started again, heat some water..."

But he was speaking to himself, Carlyle asleep in the space of a breath. He nodded in satisfaction. It was much better for Carlyle to be asleep than to be awake. He'd heal all the quicker.

It was also remarkably easier to think without those honey-dark eyes fixed on him.

Sharpe climbed out of the bed, shivering in the sudden cold. Dragging on his greatcoat over his nakedness, he knelt by the fire and built it up from the embers, crouching where he was until it flamed bright, roaring away, wood cracking and spitting as it burned.

When it was ready, he put water on to heat and standing, considered the bed. Carlyle slept in a sprawl, but the sheets needed to be changed, they were filthy, probably still damp. Something that should be remedied if he didn't want the fever back.

Sharpe went over and checked on the sleeper. Then, pulling on some clothes under the greatcoat, left the room in search of what he needed.

Luck went with him, and at the end of the corridor he found a small closet full of household odds and ends. There were more candles, sheets, pillows that the feathers were coming out of and a pile of mothed quilts. Pilling as much as he could carry over one arm he staggered back to the room.

Carlyle was still asleep.

Tossing his coat aside, Sharpe sat himself down on the edge of the bed. Softly, so as not to wake him too fast, he spoke Carlyle's name, resting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a gentle shake. "Hey, wake up! I need to change the bed-linen."

Heavy eyes blinked open and focused. Then closed again, though it was clear Carlyle was awake.

"Come on. Or you'll catch your death on top of everything else."

A stubbled cheek twitched in amusement. "Oh, all right..."

Sharpe pulled back the covers, then held out a cleanish blanket for Carlyle to wrap himself in. "You can sit by the fire until I'm done."

"Yes, sir." Carlyle sighed, then began to awkwardly ease himself out of the bed. Sharpe had to help him, and to keep hold of him once he was upright.

"Come on, sit down."

Giddy, suddenly made aware that he was less well than he had thought, Carlyle obeyed without murmur. Eased there by Sharpe's careful hands, he sat in the chair by the fire and lay cautiously back, eyes closing.

Sharpe watched him, making sure that he could feel the warmth from the fire, not knowing that the intensity of his own gaze burned with more heat than simple flame ever could. He jumped slightly when Carlyle waved a hand at him, muttering, "Go and do the bed, I'll be fine," without even bothering to open his eyes.

It didn't take long to strip the covers back and to replace the sheets and blankets. Sharpe had even found fresh cases for the pillows so that when he finished the bed looked good enough for a king. Or at least a lord.

A lord who needed a wash before he went anywhere.

The room was wonderfully warm, the fire efficiently doing its work, banishing the cold. Sharpe thought that also it might be a warmer day than the previous ones. When he peered out of the window the snow still covered the ground, but the first signs of thaw were there and the trees were all brown bark, not white as they had been. The day was brighter too, it was already past noon and a very faint trickle of sunlight was finding its way through the grey clouds.

He turned back into the room, pausing for a second, then going to crouch at Carlyle's side. "The bed's ready."

"Lovely."

"And the water's warm."

"I must be in heaven." Carlyle rolled his head against the back of the chair and opened his eyes. They were calm and clear.

"It was Ashcombe House the last time I looked, and I reckon heaven would have more than a bowlful of hot water."

Carlyle sighed theatrically. "You might be right."

"Reckon so." Sharpe hesitated, then nodded at the water. "If you stay where you are, I can wash you."

Doubtful, Carlyle turned his head to look at the waiting bowl. "I'm sure I can do it myself."

"And break those stitches?" Sharpe tapped a finger on the worn arm of Carlyle's chair. "Not likely."

"But..."

"No buts. Just do what you're told."

Carlyle smiled slightly, and Sharpe was suddenly aware he was doing exactly what the other man wanted. The awkward feeling slipped away almost immediately, as soon as the smile went from Carlyle's eyes. Sharpe blinked, and it was as if he had never felt a shadow. Carlyle couldn't be manipulating him, he was nowhere near well enough. It was a joke to think anything else.

Sharpe shook himself, and going to the bowl knelt down, reaching into the water to ring out the cloth he had torn from a sheet to use as a flannel. A thought struck him, and he sat back on his heels, staring at the long, elegant feet that stuck out of the enveloping blanket. The feet weren't particularly grimy, but even so... "I don't suppose there is a cake of soap anywhere?"

"On the dresser, next to my razor."

"Of course." Sharpe stood up and walking around the room found a cake of speckled soap nestling in a china dish. It amused him to see it was of the finest quality, smooth and refined; when he brought it to his nose he could smell the unmistakeable scent of lavender. Going back, he knelt down at Carlyle's feet and worked the soap into the cloth, commenting, "Nice."

"Mmm. There's some I brought back from Spain somewhere."

Most people brought back a sword, or some tawdry scrap of jewellery, trust this man to bring back soap. "You did?"

"It must have got put away somewhere." Carlyle frowned slightly.

"Probably in that treasure-trove of a cellar. Do you ever throw anything away?" Sharpe looked up from washing Carlyle's knees; they were as bony as the rest of him but unaccountably appealing.

"Yes. But not for a while. Things have been pushed aside rather than be sold or disposed of. I haven't cared very much to bother, in truth."

"The house looks as if you've neglected it for a long time." Sharpe was at the strong-muscled thighs, careful of the trickles of water, trying not to wet the chair too much. The hairs here were very fine, but almost dark against skin pale enough never to have been touched by the sun. There was a small scar, just on the inside of one leg, curiously shaped like a crescent. Sharpe ran his thumb over it as he washed, and fought the urge to bend forward and place his lips across its curve.

He had already decided that he'd have to divert to a different part of anatomy rather than continue further upwards.

"It is quite shameful I suppose, but I haven't cared about anything."

Sharpe stilled, one hand flat against skin, the other at his own side, resting on his own corduroy covered thigh. Water dripped down his arm. "Neither have I."

"No."

They sat quite still, a tableau of realisation.

After a moment, Sharpe let out a long breath. "Harper's gone."

"I am sorry." Carlyle remembered the big man, so protective of his officer. "Dead?"

"No, thank Christ. Married and back in Ireland with a pack of brats. He's got an inn somewhere in Dublin and is probably up to all sorts of roguery." Sharpe paused, his gaze firmly downwards. "He kept me together, afterwards. Then, back in England, after he went..." An eloquent shrug said all the rest.

"A soldier without an army. And I came back here, to where I swore I would never return."

Silence.

Sharpe broke it. "It's all been a mess."

"Oh, yes. A most royal one..."

Sharpe shuffled around on his knees and began on an arm which was elegantly pushed from the blanket for him. Here the fine hairs were pale gold. "Still, you might have had me killed. That would have been worse."

"So true." Carlyle's eyes were intent on Sharpe, fascinated by the absorbtion with which he performed his task. "I'm glad I didn't."

"Good!"

Carlyle raised his arm and sighed as the cloth cleaned away the sweat in his armpit. Raising the other arm made him wince slightly, but he hid it, quite happy to have Sharpe leaning over him, his face close enough to kiss. If it had been right. Which it wasn't. Not yet.

He breathed again when Sharpe straightened.

"Shave?"

"You'll have a great career as a valet if you aren't careful."

"Hah!" Sharpe raised his eyes and ignored the comment. Standing behind the seated man, he worked lather into his beard. The cut-throat razor was plain, the blade expensive; nothing like the ornately elaborate one Carlyle had been using in Spain. Sharpe wondered what had become of that, indeed, of all those plundered riches. Left to rot, or plundered in turn, he supposed. There was probably some old soldier, English or French, maybe even Spanish, using it on his chin before going out to milk the cows, or setting down to work at some trade. Sharpe wished whoever had it well.

This blade cut through the beard stubble with ease. Sharpe held one hand to the tilted neck, the razor firm in the other. He could see the beat of blood beneath the fine skin; the pulse just under the jawline. As each bladeful of stubble-specked lather was lifted away to be wiped on a spare cloth, he resisted the temptation to smooth his fingers over the exposed skin. He couldn't allow himself any leeway. Couldn't. In the end he shaved Carlyle with more speed and efficiency than he usually used on himself, quite relieved when it was done.

Not that shaving was to be the worst.

He coughed to clear his throat, then made an empty gesture with his hand. "You'll have to stand for the rest, can you manage?"

Lulled into contentment, Carlyle was certain he could do anything. "I should think so. Give me your hand to get up."

He leant on the mantle while the rest of his body was washed clean. Sharpe unwrapped the bandages and pronounced himself happy with the wound, then bandaged it again with clean strips of cotton.

Neither of them said anything while Sharpe washed the more intimate parts of Carlyle's body, though the awareness between them could have been cut into the finest ribbon with a knife.

Afterwards, eased gently into the clean bed, Carlyle sighed with contentment, ignoring the weakness and the way his muscles trembled. He was asleep almost immediately.

Sharpe watched him for a long time, wondering at it all. Then he dressed properly, rebuilt the fire and, taking the soiled chamber-pot and the pail of dirty water, went downstairs to forage.

*

Carlyle slept for nearly all of the next day and then through the night. He woke occasionally, urged by the needs of his body, but sleep was what he needed most. Sharpe fetched and carried, read with interest, though without much concentration, books from the library which he carried with him up to the bedroom. Most of the time he sat in the big chair and watched the sleeping man, remembering. The next morning, the third after he had been shot, Carlyle woke clear eyed. He ate the food provided for his breakfast and complained when Sharpe inspected his wound. He was getting better.

Sharpe ignored the grumbling, too reassured by the sight of the healing flesh to take any notice. The stitches would be able to come out in a few days. See how much Carlyle complained then! Sharpe hid his slight amusement and began the days tasks.

He was walking back from the cesspit when he caught a glimpse of movement by the stable block. Putting the pot down by the kitchen door, he hurried down the side of the main building, his boots sloshing through snow melting into mud. The only noise apart from his footsteps was the steady drip of water falling from the eaves of the house, and the ivy rustling. The snow would be gone in a day, unless the bitter cold came back and stopped the thaw.

He trudged round the corner, cursing the state of his boots. One day soon he'd have to get a new pair. Throw these away and say good riddance. He grinned at the thought, suddenly aware that he really did care about things, in a way that he hadn't for long time. And it wasn't as if he couldn't afford to have a new pair made. He had enough money for that, at the very least.

Slowing his pace as he approached the stable, Sharpe saw signs in the mud and melting snow of other footsteps, ones smaller than his own. The door was unbolted and he walked through, the hinges screeching as he pushed it home behind him. At the noise the top half of a youth emerged warily from a loose-box, his face changing from welcome to blank surprise.

"Hello." Sharpe gave a lop-sided smile and nodded at the boy, staying where he was by the door so as not to frighten him. "Looking after his lordship's horse are you?"

"Ay." A whole body emerged, turning into a boy of about ten years old.

"She looked well when I looked her over - you do a good job."

The boy nodded an awkward sort of thanks, though he still looked uncertain, his eyebrows drawn together in a sort of scowl. "Who are you?"

"A friend."

"Where's his Lordship?"

The boy was clearly local, his accent the same as a soldier Sharpe had known who hailed from near Canterbury. "He had an accident, so he'll be in bed for a while."

"Is he all right?"

"He'll be fine." Sharpe considered the boy, who at least was no longer scowling. "How does he pay you? Do you need anything now?"

The dark head went slowly from side to side in a denial that clearly had to be thought about. "Dad sees to that."

Sharpe looked the kid over, seeing the relatively good state of his homespun clothes he would grow into soon enough, the battered but serviceable shoes that were on his feet. He didn't think the father was taking undue advantage. "What's your name?"

"Ned Maxted, sir."

"Well, Ned, apart from seeing to the mare, what else do you do?" Sharpe took a few paces into the stables, hands easy at his sides. He wanted the boy to trust him, and with the remains of his uniform and goodness knows how many days growth of stubble he probably looked as untrustworthy as you could get.

"I do whatever I'm asked. And I bring up baskets of food."

"Did you bring one today?" Eagerness put an edge to Sharpe's voice.

"Ay, it's by the door, I was going to bring it inside in a bit."

When he'd eaten some, more like. Sharpe grinned knowingly and after a moment, the boy smiled shyly back. He slowly produced an apple from his pocket. "Here, I took this."

"Keep it. It must be hungry work mucking out."

"Thanks!"

"Enjoy it. Do you come up every day?"

"When I can. Ma wouldn't let me out with the blizzard, but it should be all right now."

"Good. You can bring the food straight into the kitchen from now on." Sharpe considered. "I don't suppose I could get you to bring more. I'll be staying for a while..."

The boy nodded, he understood about food, never really feeling that he got fed enough - a sentiment his mother would have been horrified at. "I'll tell Ma."

"Do you know how he settles up for it?"

"With Dad."

Sharpe mouthed the words with the boy and they both grinned again. "Tell him to come up and we'll sort it."

A nod.

Sharpe turned and pulled the door open, letting in a gust of cold air. About to leave, laden basket over his arm, he paused. "If we needed some help around the house, cleaning and the like, would your mother know people who'd be willing to come up here?"

"For money?"

"Ay."

"As many as you want."

"Great. When you come up tomorrow, come into the hall and give me a shout. I'll leave the basket in the kitchen for you to pick up before you go."

"Yes, sir."

Sharpe paused again. "And call me Richard, I'm no sir."

The boy considered, eyeing the battered greatcoat, the worn boots. He lifted his gaze to meet kind eyes in a hard face. "Are you a soldier?"

"I were."

"Did you fight in Spain?"

"I fought all over the place, now get on with your work."

"Yes, si..."

The shared grin again. "You'll get used to it. Bye Ned, look after the horse."

"Her name's Zanzibar." Ned called out, pronouncing the name as if it was the most exotic thing in the world, which in his world it most likely was.

"Very pretty." Though Sharpe couldn't imagine the boy whispering that to her as he groomed. "What do you call her?"

"Zany. Though she isn't, she's sweet tempered as they come." Wide eyes, the boy hastily amended any misconception he might have created.

"I know. And she's a fine piece of horse-flesh."

"A right goer, sir! His lordship, you should see him up on her. I want to ride like that one day."

Sharpe considered the image of Carlyle riding neck-or-nothing across the rolling Kentish fields. Very nice. "I'm sure you will." Sharpe refocused his eyes and smiled. "Just don't try it on Zanzibar. You'd have a lot of explaining to do with a broken neck."

"I won't."

"Good lad. I'll see you tomorrow."

Sharpe left the stables satisfied in many ways. Though there was one mystery opened, that of where on earth Carlyle had put the food brought to him. He certainly hadn't eaten it, he was too thin, and apart from the cheese there hadn't been a scrap in the house. Shrugging away that conundrum, Sharpe sloshed his way back to the kitchen door. He tried the out-door water pump, but it was still frozen solid. He gave it a kick, and promised himself it would be working as soon as he had the time to come down and work on it. Then with a rueful shrug he went back inside.


	9. bedding in...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and...

*

He closed the door behind him and immediately investigated the contents of the basket. Sharpe's stomach rolled in anticipation as unearthed two pies, from the smell of them one sweet and one savoury, next came some apples and a loaf of bread so freshly baked that he could almost imagine it was still warm. Treasure of treasures there was also a small earthenware crock of butter and another of honey.

A feast. One he hoped Carlyle would be fit enough to share.

Sharpe unpacked it all and wrapped it in a cloth to take upstairs when he was done. The basket, along with one of the apples, he left by the door for Ned.

Standing alone in the vast kitchen his nose wrinkled at the smell of himself; it hadn't been so bad out with the horse, but here, he stank as high as a barrack full of conscripts.. Stripping down to the skin, he tossed his clothes onto the floor. Then with great determination, for it was one of the more awkward baths he had ever indulged in, he manned the pump himself and washed, scouring the night's sweat from every inch of his body, using the soap he had brought with him. It had been years since he used soap as fine as this and it was odd to smell so sweet, the slightly spicy flower-scent of the lavender. At least Carlyle would be bound to like it, the soap was his after all.

Clean from head to toe, he pulled on his overalls, buttoning them closed, but leaving the straps hanging. Both shirt and drawers were beyond wear, so he tossed them into a corner to be washed some time or other. Cursorily pulling on jacket and boots, he piled all the things he needed into his arms and made his slightly unsteady way back up the stairs.

Carlyle was awake.

"Hello."

"Richard." Carlyle nodded in greeting.

Sharpe slowly unloaded himself of his burdens; food and wine on the table, chamber-pot by the bed, coat draped over the back of a chair, jug of water by the fire. He paused to lay some more logs on the fire, then stood and faced the bed, stretching slightly.

Carlyle pushed himself up on the pillows, inspecting his companion. "Starting a new fashion?"

Sharpe glanced down at his bare chest where it lay between the gaping edges of his jacket. "Looks like it. My shirt was fit for nothing, I expect its past even being washed. I was hoping I could use one of yours."

"What a shame," Carlyle drawled, his eyes the only part of his face to betray amusement. "I like it."

The food bundle was being opened on a table by the window. Sharpe paused in the process and glanced up in surprise. "You, are supposed to be ill."

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate something fine."

Sharpe made an indeterminate noise; in the light of his own convoluted feelings for Carlyle, the compliment was somehow quite hard to bear.

A languid voice broke into his clouding uncertainty. "You are quite safe, you know."

"Safe?" Sharpe straightened.

"Mmm. Until I am better, of course." A twisting smile made light of the words.

"Idiot!" Sharpe shook his head, but he smiled in return, now sure he was being teased.

"What have you got there?" A fine tactician, Carlyle knew when to retreat. Especially as he fully intended to continue the battle another day.

"I met your stable-boy." Sharpe unpacked the food, and began to slice the savoury pie with his knife.

"I wondered why you were so long."

"He seems a nice kid. He does a good job on Zanzibar."

"Ah, so he told you her name."

"I was expecting Jenny, or Beauty - trust you to name her something so daft."

There was deep affection in the mock-derision, so deep and so obvious that a look of startlement was momentarily clear on Carlyle's face. It was gone before it could be noticed, but something changed, something indefinable in the bed-ridden man's demeanour. He paused in what he had been about to say, and then went on, with something quite clearly different, offering something close to confession. "I was thinking of going there, to the spice island."

"Why?"

"Simply because it was just about as far away as I could imagine." Carlyle gave a wry, expressive shrug. "But I didn't. I didn't even have the will for that." He winced, remembering his own self-pity. "The next day I bought the mare, and instead of taking myself away I named her Zanzibar. As a reminder I suppose."

"Of what?"

"Of my own inconstancy. My own lack of courage."

Sharpe blinked. Before now, had this man ever offered anything of himself beyond that which could be seen? No, he was aloof and contained. Mostly. But this moment of revelation, of trust, was quite different, and Sharpe saw it for what it was. He knew without doubt that he wanted to know more, that he wanted to know everything, every mystery, every flaw, every reason. Here, now, was an offer of friendship; something he knew had a value beyond the price of rubies.

Faced with such an offering, Sharpe found all the words tangled in his head, and though later he would know exactly what skilled phrase he should have uttered, all his lips formed were a gruff: "You've never lacked courage."

"No?" Carlyle's hand moved emptily in the air, then rested back on the covers. "You didn't know me then."

"I do know you though."

"Richard, the most cowardice I have ever displayed was in your presence."

"When?" Startled, Sharpe glared.

"When I let you go, rather than fight for you. When I used an excuse to almost kill you."

"That was cowardice?"

"The worst kind. The kind that lies." Carlyle swallowed hard, but his eyes were fixed on the man standing so still at the other side of the room, and his voice was quite steady. "I let anger and cowardliness rule my thoughts and actions. I should have talked with you, told you what I really wanted from you."

Sharpe straightened almost imperceptibly, his face slightly averted though his eyes were fixed on Carlyle as if with glue. "And what was that?"

"Whatever you wanted to give me."

"What if that had been nothing?"

Carlyle slowly shook his head, his long, ascetic face set in lines of determination, the arrogance and pride like shadows behind his eyes. "I am sorry, but I cannot believe that."

"Well, you'd be right."

The look between them held, until Carlyle smiled. "Good." He relaxed back against the pillows, eyes closing.

"You know something?" Sharpe, all tension gone from his body, wiped his knife clean and slid it back into its sheath. From the corner of his eye he watched his companion, assessed the exhaustion that deepened the lines running ran from his nose to his mouth, and drew the talk away from such intensity. What had been said was enough, for now. "I'm bloody starving."

"And I'm very glad I didn't go to Zanzibar!"

"I'll second that. Why did you want to go there?" Sharpe carried a plate over to the bed, a fork in his other hand. "Just because it is far away is no good reason. And where is it, anyway?"

"Off the coast of Africa, I knew someone once who had been there, the way he spoke of the place, it sounded as exotic as a fable. And it really is a long, long way away." Carlyle took the food and breathed in the wonderful smell with half-closed eyes. His stomach rumbled loudly. "Gods, I'm hungry."

"Good. There's plenty, Ned's mother must have sent extra to make up for there being none for the past few days."

"Mmm" Carlyle was eating.

"Though it doesn't explain where you stored the food she sent up before that."

Carlyle swallowed.

"Well? I thought I was going to have to snare rabbits to feed you." He went back to the table and cut a large wedge of pie for himself, taking it on a plate over to the bed, where he sat, leaning against one of the end posts. "Either that, or bore you to death with my vegetable soup."

Pause. Then: "I gave it to some tinkers."

"Lucky tinkers." Sharpe was licking the last of the crumbs off his fingers, the slice of pie having disappeared miraculously. He seemed not at all perturbed at what Carlyle had done, as if he had been expecting something of that sort.

"Well, they are gypsies really. And I wasn't hungry, they were."

"So you gave it all away."

"I wasn't expecting the snow." Carlyle looked as dignified as he was able. Which, considering the state of his undress and the sliver of carrot that clung determinedly to his chin, was a great deal.

"How often do they come around?"

"When they are hereabouts. They travel a lot."

"If they find someone like you everywhere they go - lucky them." Sharpe stood up, and reaching forward wiped the morsel from Carlyle's chin. "Though they'll have to find somewhere else from now on. Can't have you giving away food, you need to get fattened up."

"As do you!"

Trap sprung, Sharpe popped the carrot into his own mouth. "All the more reason to keep what you pay for." He swallowed. "Yes?"

"Yes." A deep sigh.

"Now finish up and you can have apple pie for pudding."

Instead of obeying, Carlyle put his plate down on his lap and reaching out, took hold of Sharpe's hand. "Thank you."

The abrupt change in mood caught the other man by surprise. "For supper?"

"For being here."

"You'd be a lot healthier now if I hadn't come back."

"No." Carlyle flinched at the bitterness in Sharpe's voice. That he felt such blame was wrong, if guilt was to laid at any door it was his own. "'No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.'" His voice smooth as honey, dark and warm as a summer's night.

"What?"

Carlyle continued the quote, "'Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud.' Ah, what foolishness... What I am so badly trying to say, is that neither of us should dwell on the past." He murmured the words softly, then quietly admitted something he had long known himself. "If you hadn't come here, I'd be close to drinking myself to death."

"Is that what you were doing?"

"Trying, I believe." Carlyle shrugged one shoulder. "It seemed less effort than running away the other side of the world."

Sharpe watched him, assessingly. The hand in his own was still weak, the face pale, deeply grooved from nose to mouth with the marks of pain. If this was preferable, then what had gone before must have been quite intolerable.

Something he understood so well.

He sat on the bed, his hip close to Carlyle's, frowning down at the hand still held in his own. He wanted to ask a thousand questions, to know if he was still wanted, to wonder if there was any future in all this beyond the faint stirrings of friendship, the lightening-flashes of lust. To know what James Carlyle saw for them both. But words were so hard, and his own uncertainty with the subtleties of emotion held his voice captive in his throat.

In the end, pushing long strands of pale hair out of his eyes with an unsteady hand, he asked nothing of what he was thinking. Instead, he simply looked up, his sombre green gaze remarkably steady.

Carlyle gave the fingers a gentle squeeze. "Can I have some cheese with my apple pie?"

Sharpe almost laughed. "Ay." He stood, taking his own hand back. "Finish up first, then."

*

By the time the meal was over, it was once again nearly dark. Sharpe pottered about, tidying things, caring for the fire and setting fresh candles while Carlyle slept. Himself, he was not tired. Yet, by the time he had trudged back to the kitchen a couple of times, cleaned the plates, fetched more wood for the fire and wandered out to say goodnight to Zanzibar, he was yawning as he climbed the stairs.

As he closed the bedroom door, for the first time he wondered where he was to sleep. The chair was too uncomfortable, and besides, Carlyle was unlikely now to slip into a decline. He supposed what he should do was find another room - heaven knew, there were enough of them. But something held him still, and after a moment, the sleeper's eyes opened and Carlyle blinked owlishly at him.

"Coming to bed?"

"Thinking about it."

"Well, don't hang around too long..." and he pulled back the covers and patted the sheets enticingly. "I'm tired."

"Ay."

Sharpe lent on the door and surveyed the bed. It couldn't hurt to sleep there. It was wide enough. And Carlyle was well enough.

He pushed away from the wood and began to strip off his clothes, though he kept on the shirt he had borrowed. The bed was warm, smelling of lavender and clean linen. Unknowingly he sighed as he climbed inside and pulled the covers up to his shoulder.

"That's better." Carlyle shifted slightly, making more room. He left his hand resting on Sharpe's arm. "Sleep well."

"And you."

There was little doubt of that, the breathing deepened almost before Sharpe spoke, and the other man was fast asleep. Sharpe smiled, and turning slightly, reached over and snuffed the candles.

Settling back down, Sharpe realised that he had scarcely ever slept with anyone else. In the army a bed had been whatever there was to hand, often enough the ground. He and Harper had considered a narrow straw mattress the height of luxury, and even then they rarely dared spend a whole night with each other, at least not alone. Rumour was a vicious beast, and neither of them had fancied rousing it. Instead they had snatched time together, stolen an hour here, an hour there. It been enough. Just. Women he had slept with, certainly. Slept with and not just bedded. Often in fine sheets and feather beds, in luxury supplied by husbands far enough away for them not to matter. He'd played the whore even then though, leaving the comfort early, rarely staying a whole night. Even with the women he had pictured himself in love with. Jane had been different, a wife was something a man woke with. Or should have. Often enough it had been an empty bed that greeted his opening eyes, his English wife finding more pleasure in others' beds than his own. He rarely thought of her now, could hardly bring her face to his mind, his brief, mindless infatuation for her long dead. Teresa had been different, and he touched the place where he kept her memory and knew she would have approved of Carlyle, a realisation that that made him almost smile.

Carlyle's breathing changed, but he remained asleep; a dream, perhaps. Sharpe listened for a while, feeling the warmth of the sleeping man lick at his own body. It was ridiculously companionable, lying there. Sharpe studied the darkness, the shadows caused by the fire. With a certain startlement, he realised that there was nowhere else he wished to be, and that the root of that contentment lay at his side. Strange games fate played with them all; from Spain to this. He closed his eyes, the lids heavy. Carlyle had looked so remote, that first time, standing on that balcony, observing, arrogant. And then waking from the beating with those large, skilful hands mending his body. Even then he had been fascinated, attracted. But then Carlyle had been a fascinating man. Still was. Still as full of mystery, though less unapproachable. Nothing like a duel to bring two men together... Sharpe smiled.

He drowsed, his mind forming schemes to set the house to rights. Carlyle needed someone to look after things. The ivy would have to go first. Let some light into the rooms. Then some cleaning would have to be done. It was all a task and a half. More. But nothing that couldn't be accomplished with money and a little help.

Both of which it seemed he could find.

Maybe before Carlyle left his sick bed.

And...

His thoughts petered out, lost in a haze as sleep overtook him.

*

Trapped in his sick bed, Carlyle was kept quite successfully in the dark about his companion's schemes. Not that Sharpe deliberately made a mystery out of his actions, but he couldn't know that Carlyle was used to assessing everything; adept at reading messages even where none had been written. Carlyle knew over the next few days that Richard was up to something, though quite what he was unsure. Sharpe cared for him attentively, brought books from the library, food from Ned, and generally cared for his every need. That every now and then he would just disappear for hours in the day, not once saying where he had been, or making any effort to explain, Sharpe didn't think about at all. He never knew the effect his absence was having on the man tied so unwillingly to his sick-bed.

Unsure of his boundaries, Carlyle never asked outright where Sharpe went. If he had done so, he would half have expected to hear in answer that Sharpe was bored, or even planning to leave. He saw only what he expected, ignoring completely the contentment that filled the other man in a way that only a blind man, or one overly concerned with the matter, could miss. All of which made him very impatient with the healing wound in his side. If he had been well, there would have been no possibility of boredom for either of them. Of that he was certain. He could remember what Richard had been like in bed, how he had responded, what he tasted of.

That Carlyle could feel the beginnings of lust while the other man lay at his side, he considered wonderful. That he was too weak to even begin acting on such itchings irritated immensely, making him short with his companion and accidentally further deepening what he saw as a rift opening between them. Since that day when they had come as close as they ever had, he seemed to see less and less of Sharpe, who, when he was around, seemed to want to sleep early and rise with the dawn, his thoughts and usually his body clearly elsewhere. Carlyle of course saw this as cause and effect, and cursed himself for having spoken of things that bordered on intimacy so soon. That Sharpe desired him he had no doubt. That he felt anything else...well, that was a different matter entirely.

On the sixth day after the duel, the third of incarceration, pursued by demons of doubt, Carlyle finally made it out of bed, to rise and dress without assistance. His side was healing well, the weakness caused by loss of blood far more debilitating than any remnant of pain. Though, once in trousers and shirt, still barefoot, he stood by the bed and wondered after all, if this was a good idea. Determination alone had him reaching for a jacket, cursing himself for having grown soft. He was stranded half across the room, heading for the press, when the door opened.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?"

Guilt making him short tempered, Carlyle snapped. "Getting dressed, what do you think?"

"Making yourself ill again." Sharpe closed the door, wiped his sleeve across his face, and stood hand impatiently on hip. "Have you taken leave of what few senses I left you? You need to rest!"

"I need to get out of this room."

"And do what?"

Carlyle drew his lips into a thin line, then turned away, back unnaturally stiff.

Sharpe was in front of him, anger tightening the muscles of his face. For some reason there was a piece of ivy tangled in his hair, and as Carlyle watched, a spider ran down his collar. Curiosity took away all irrational temper. "What have you been doing?" He reached out and picked the spider off the thick wool tail-coat, his own, tossing it to one side before reaching up and gently tugging the leaf free.

"All sorts, and don't change the subject."

Carlyle looked into Sharpe's eyes and knew all his doubts were false. The concern there was all too real, quite how he could ever have doubted it he wasn't sure. Not that genuine concern for his welfare would mean that, without inducements, Sharpe would stay any longer than he had to, of course. "I'm sorry. But I am growing very weary of these four walls."

Sharpe inspected him keenly, but saw nothing to contradict the words. "You should wait until the stitches are out."

"Rubbish! I would wager you fought battles in a worse state than this!"

"That was different."

"Indeed?"

"Ay, it was." Sharpe nodded his head once, impatiently.

Carlyle considered battles, and knew beyond doubt that this particular one was going to be the most important of his life. He smiled crookedly at the thought, wondering what the other man would say if he spoke his feelings. Discretion proved the better part of valour. "Let me take a walk, stretch my legs. I really am very tired of being here."

The plaintive note broke any steadfastness Sharpe might have summoned. "Half an hour, no more."

"Wonderful."

Carlyle's smile was enough. "Well, we'd better get you dressed properly, then." Sharpe nodded at the bed. "Go and sit down while I sort something out."

"My pleasure."

"Well, as I'm wearing mostly your clothes, at least I know where everything is!" In fact, apart from his boots, all Sharpe wore came on loan. It all fitted well enough, when adapted with judicious belting and folding back of cuffs. He was roughly the same height as Carlyle, an inch shorter perhaps, but slighter, even when fully fit.

"I knew there was a good reason for giving you full rein at my belongings."

"I should think you usually have a good reason for the things you do, eh?" Sharpe looked quickly back over his shoulder, watching as Carlyle sat himself down.

"Not always deliberate." He closed his eyes, content now that his whim was being indulged.

"Really?"

Carlyle merely imitated the sphinx.

"Come on." Sharpe walked back carrying an armful of clothing, tossing it down on the bed. Then with a martyred sigh he knelt. "Give us your feet..." He dressed Carlyle warmly, socks and short boots on his feet, waistcoat and thick wool jacket over the fine shirt. When he was ready they both stood, Sharpe suddenly hesitant.

"What's the matter?"

He made a face. "I've made a few changes...I just thought I should warn you."

"Changes?"

"Ay, you'll see."

"Mysteries, indeed."

"Not very exciting ones." Sharpe opened the door, and let Carlyle precede him out the room.

It was immediately colder away from the fire. Carlyle was glad of all the layers of clothes as he walked slowly down to the long gallery. Everything there was as he remembered, apart from a great gouge out of one panel. Dimly he could recall firing his weapon into the air. His shot must have caused the damage. There was also a dark stain on the floor, something he politely pretended not to notice.

The gallery was as shadowed as it ever was, but as they came to the staircase, Carlyle stopped in his tracks, then accusingly looked around at Sharpe, commenting dryly, "You have been busy."

"I got fed up with tripping over my own feet because I couldn't see half a yard in front of my eyes. Do you mind?"

Carlyle lent on the carved end of the bannister rail and shook his head. "No, how could I?"

"I thought maybe you liked the dark."

The high windows above, and to the right and left, of the main doors were clear of ivy, light flooding through to illuminate every corner of the great hall. A hall, he realised, that showed no sign of dust or dirt or accumulated years of rubbish. "No, I just couldn't be bothered to do anything about it."

"Good." Sharpe grinned, clearly relieved that the first hurdle had been taken so easily.

Carlyle began to walk slowly down the stairs, one hand loosely about his waist, the other on the bannister. "Did you do all this on your own?"

"No, Ned helped with the ivy - bloody tenacious stuff, that is. And..."

A capable looking woman, well into middle-age, dressed in clean, but very faded brown work-clothes, appeared out of the kitchen doorway. "Mister Sharpe?" Then she saw who accompanied her employer, and her pleasure was unmistakeable. "Your Lordship!" She dipped into a light curtsey then picking up her skirts, ran up the steps to assist. "How are you, sir?"

"I'm fine, Annie, just fine." Carlyle cast an accusing look at Sharpe, who was somehow looking extremely innocent. "Well, Annie Maxted, am I to thank you for the wonderful change in the state of my hallway?"

"Ay." Sharpe answered for her. "And the parlour, and the dining room, and the kitchens. Annie and her friends have done marvels." He smiled at her. "Isn't that so?"

"Nonsense! You've worked just as hard, Mister Sharpe." Unsure about how she could help a man walking slowly, but easily, she ended up at their side, her maternal gaze assessing Carlyle in a way that made him quite uncomfortable. "He has, your Lordship." Curiosity danced behind her eyes. "Are you well now? Is there anything you need?"

"I'm fine. Richard has been an admirable physician."

"Oh, Mister Sharpe was quite concerned that we kept away from your part of the house, and that none too much noise was made."

"Really." The laconic comment was accompanied by a sideways look. "I had wondered what he was up to."

"Annie?" Sharpe forestalled any more of this. "Could you make us some tea?"

"It'd be a pleasure." She hurried down the last few steps. "Shall I bring it into the library?"

"Great."

"I brought the washing back, I've left it in the kitchen for you."

"Thanks."

"Washing?" As she walked away, Carlyle mouthed the word at Sharpe.

"Seemed better than doing it myself." He shrugged almost apologetically.

"True." Carlyle agreed wholeheartedly. He walked on, then in a slight daze he stood in the centre of the room and looked all around. "It's just as I remember."

"What?"

Carlyle blinked, then focused on Sharpe. "It hasn't been light in here since I returned."

Of course. The ivy had been thick and strong with years of growth. With quick sympathy, Sharpe wondered if letting the light in had, after all, been a good idea; there were places he never wanted to get a good look at again. "Too many bad memories?"

Carlyle slowly shook his head. For the first time Sharpe noticed that his fair hair glinted with touches of russet-red in the thin, afternoon light. "No. I'll get used to it."

"Sure?"

"Yes. In many ways this isn't the same house I knew, half of it has been pulled down, the other half I've let fall into disrepair."

"I saw the piles of brick, and I've tripped over the remains of the foundations more often than I care to think. This place is big enough now, but it must've been huge before. Why was it reduced to this?"

"Some grandiose idea of my father's, to start again, rebuilding with designs from some architect friend of his. I can remember the enthusiasm with which he talked about the plans, for a while he was close to happy I think, but it all came to nothing. He got as far as the demolition, then ran out of enthusiasm."

"What was the other part of the house like?"

Carlyle snorted with amusement. "Terrible. It was a good idea, in many ways, that it was destroyed, it was damp and the roof leaked no matter how often it was repaired. Most of it was closed up many years ago, though I use to play there as a boy." He looked around. "This was always the main part of the house, this is where I remember my mother, where I was brought to see her."

"So you have some affection for the place?"

"More than some." He eyed an oblivious Sharpe speculatively, wondering what inducement it would take to get him to live here, for Carlyle was certain, if that eventuality could somehow be brought about, then the past may as well not have been. Like starting with a clean slate. He watched Sharpe as he walked around the great hall, his own eyes narrowing in the severe lines of his countenance as he thought: if you live here with me, then I may forget every bitterness I ever held. Will you be able to do the same? But the words were silent, to be asked only inside himself. For despite wishing that he could say the words aloud, he was quite uncertain how they would be taken.

"I like it very much." Sharpe was not paying attention to his companions quiet. "Come on, let me take you on a tour. Where would you like to go first?"

"Richard." Carlyle's smile was so brilliant that Sharpe was quite taken aback. "Lead where you will." If Sharpe liked the house, then maybe he could be persuaded to stay, for that if not for any other reason. The estate did need managing, for Carlyle knew his cousin couldn't be expected to deal with the matter forever. Anyway, apart from collecting rents and seeing to tenants queries, Giles Glebe had done very little to care for the estate since the death of the old lord. Even in a drunken stupor Carlyle had known that. Not that he had cared one iota, then.

It appeared that while Carlyle had slept and fretted in his room, a small army of village women had been hard at work in the main ground-floor rooms. Even though everything was still old, it was at least clean. Sharpe had overseen everything, and helped out when and where he was needed. Now all he hoped was that in the melee he hadn't thrown out anything too precious.

Carlyle stood in the doorway of his drawing-room and had trouble not gaping like a stuck fish. "Richard..." He blinked, then walked into the room, leaving Sharpe leaning on the door-frame, trying without any success not to look smug. The broken window was re-glazed, rotting curtains pulled down and everything, from the floor to the ceiling gleamed. Nothing could disguise the age and wear, but even so it was all so different, so clean. "I wouldn't recognise the place." He paced about, touching with careful fingers; the settee, the tables, all the oak which somehow gleamed as if with years of polish. The few ornaments were all sparkling on the mantle, and by the chaise longue he found his mother's work case, perfectly neat, just where it had always been when he was a child. Carlyle crouched down and lifted the lid, running a finger over the wood and silver and thread that inhabited the case.

Sharpe watched, and somehow at this moment knew he couldn't bear to learn of Carlyle's wife. Not now. He cleared his throat and spoke of the first matters that came into his head. "It isn't perfect, a lot of the wood is rotten and needs proper work in the summer. The wall there is rotten, at least the pointing is. I couldn't do anything with that either. As for the glass, I found a window in one of the bedrooms that was the same size, so I brought that pane down here and boarded over the one upstairs." He paused, swallowed, then looked hesitantly across the room at his companion. "I thought you might guess I was up to something with the hammering."

Carlyle stood up, amused and touched by the uncharacteristically long speech. He shook his head. "I didn't hear a thing."

"I wasn't sure if you had or not."

"Nothing. The occasional thump, certainly, but nothing else."

"I wondered if the walls would be thick enough to keep you undisturbed. I didn't touch the ivy on that part of the house because I didn't want to have you bothered."

"I wouldn't have been bothered."

"Maybe not. Maybe I also wanted to surprise you." Sharpe went into the room and laid his hands on the wide shoulders. "A get well present, if you like."

"Thank you." Carlyle licked his lips, his eyes fixed on Sharpe's. The moment pulled out very fine, holding without breath or thought, spinning each around the other. Carlyle began to lean forward, the movement without predetermination, a hand reaching up, touching the warm skin of stubbled face. "Thank you very much."

The kiss was long and sweet, their lips soft against each other's, their breath mingling as they nipped and nuzzled. After a while - a second? an hour? - the kiss deepened, and Sharpe was pressed against the length of Carlyle's body, the passion sudden, giddy and wild enough to obliterate every thought. He pulled back, shocked into sobriety when Carlyle's body tightened momentarily in pain.

"Jamie!" Sharpe took a pace back, his hands on Carlyle's shoulders ready to lend support.

"I'm fine." He was breathless, though clearly not from the wound in his side. "I just forgot for a moment."

"I'll take you back upstairs..."

"You'll do no such thing. I am fine, honestly. Finish the tour, then I'll be good boy and go back to bed." Carlyle blinked lazily. "With you if you want..."

Sharpe groaned. "Don't tempt me."

"I'm glad that I can. Maybe in a couple of days I'll be able to cash in on that ability."

"Jesus, you would tempt a dead man. But we'll wait until you are well." He cocked an ear as the sound of singing came filtering through the door, accompanied by the distinctive rattle of tea-cups. "And maybe wait until the leading light of the local church isn't around." He grinned.

"She was always shocked at my father because he clung to the Roman faith, I have to admit to being reluctant to give her cause to look sideways at me."

"Well then." Sharpe whispered conspiratorially. "No more kissing in public." Letting go, he observed carefully the wounded man's reaction to being unsupported. He seemed fine, but nevertheless... "And none at all until you are well."

"Yes, Richard."

"Mmm. I've a feeling you might be a more awkward patient from now on."

"Me?"

"Ay. Now come and have a look at the library."

"Are there still any books in it?" Carlyle teased.

"A few." Came the laconic reply. There really were a large amount now scattered around the bedroom.

In the library a table had been set in front of the fireplace, and a small fire burned merrily in the grate. The books still lined the walls, though the damaged ones seemed to have been disposed of. Above all, there was no evidence at all that a drunkard had lived squalidly in this place. It even smelled delightful, of beeswax and herbs, of burning apple-wood, and the tea that curled steam so enticingly into the air.

"Where did you get the tea."

"Ned's uncle went into Canterbury. I asked him to pick up a few things, not knowing where you might have an account I told him to use his judgement. I've been dying for a cup of decent tea." Sharpe lent over the pot and breathed in, slow and sensuous. "Great! Shall I pour?"

"Please..."

Carlyle was wandering around the room. The glass in the long doors shone like crystal; he remembered Sharpe bursting through them, an avenging angel. All he had needed was a flaming sword. Though it was probably just as well he hadn't had one.

"Here, there's some sugar if you want?"

"No, just milk." Carlyle took the fragile cup, an earlier memory waking. "Where did you find these?" He indicated the china?

"In the attic. Is it all right to use them?"

"Of course." He fingered the cup, his brows drawn together in a frown, though he spoke quite sincerely. "Use anything you find in the house."

"Then what is the matter?"

"I thought my father had thrown these away long ago."

Sharpe inspected the cup in his hand. It wasn't really big enough, but that was to be expected of fancy stuff like this. Small blue flowers were painted around the rim, highlighted in gold, and another single flower was inside the cup, to be discovered as you sipped. "They don't look that bad."

"No." Carlyle took a long breath. "But they belonged to my mother."

Sharpe waited for more, but in the end he had to nudge, "And?"

"She died in childbirth."

"With you?"

"No, a still-born daughter. The combination of the two was too much for my father's sense of what was owed him. He banished all her belongings, even things like this which really belonged to the household, anything that she loved."

"Perhaps he really loved her, couldn't bear to be reminded of her?"

"No. He was just irritated."

"How old were you?"

"Ten, I suppose." He came back from the memories, stung by the sympathy on Sharpe's face. "And how old were you, when your mother died?"

Sharpe hesitated in surprise at the abrupt question. "Four, five, maybe. Though as I never saw much of her it made no difference." He caught an interrogatory look and explained somewhat acerbicly, "whore's don't get much time to be maternal."

"No."

"Shocked?" The word was spat out.

"No. You told me long since that you were born in a brothel, I assumed that your mother was one of the whores."

"Ay." Sharpe took a deep breath and sat down, putting the cup on the table as if he didn't trust his hands. "Most of the time I don't care. Hell, in the army it was a badge of something like honour!" He made a wry sound, looking down at the floor. "Now, I'm not so sure."

"I don't care. You could have been born to the ermine or in a ditch, and I would still see you as you are."

"Lucky you."

"Maybe." Carlyle sat down in the next chair, his hand reaching across the table. "And maybe one day you will forgive me for having been born to all this."

"I don't resent..."

"Not resent, scorn."

Sharpe closed his eyes, his shoulders hunched in their borrowed clothing. "No, you're not like the prinked out lords at Horseguards. You are different."

"That is all right then." Carlyle gave a small, almost-smile at the unseeing man. "Do you want some more tea?"

Slowly, Sharpe raised his head, his disordered hair slowly falling into place about his intent face. "It really doesn't matter to you, does it - where I was born, I mean."

"No."

He shook his head. "I've never met anyone like you."

"Good."

For the first time since Spain, Sharpe saw the slow, cat's smile he remembered. He blinked, thoughts spun into disorder. "What made you what you are?"

"Life." Carlyle took a sip of tea, slightly amused. "The same as what made you as you are. We all come to ourselves by different means, some easy some hard. Of course, all mine were eased by the feather mattress of my title." Irony dripped from his drawled words.

"I thought as much." Sharpe gave a quick grin of appreciation. "Bloody aristo. Knew you'd had it easy from the day I met you."

Carlyle smiled an easy smile that faded quickly. Finishing his tea, he put the cup down on the table and stood up, walking away for a moment before turning, his eyes confused. "Spain seems so long ago, almost as if it all happened to someone else, or was a dream."

"In a way I know what you mean." Sharpe rose, and moved the few paces to Carlyle's side. "But I'm glad it was real, that it happened."

"All of it?"

Sharpe blinked, then gave a wry face. "It happened. You just said that life makes us what we are. Maybe it was for the best."

Carlyle read the meaning under the words. "You think there would have been no future for us?"

"I don't know, but it's a likelihood. We were different, the world was different." He gestured with one hand, fingers opening as if casting jacks. "I was a soldier, I had to fight."

Carlyle reached out and hesitantly held his hand to Sharpe's face. It wasn't pushed away. "Do you think we'll have more luck this time round?"

"Remember, I'm a soldier, I think we make our own luck."

"And can we create our own, now?"

Both men were utterly intent, breath tight in their chests, concentration obvious on their faces.

Sharpe nodded slowly. When he spoke his voice was rough with unconcealable emotion. "How often do you get a second chance?"

"Never before."

"There you go then." Sharpe nodded in satisfaction.

It occurred to both men for the very first time that they both might want the same things. That the dreams might, after all, not be so impossible. Respect, growing friendship, undoubted attraction.

Carlyle rubbed his thumb across warm, slightly stubbled chin, feeling the soft rasp of bristle, the slight, unmistakable response. "Heaven! I wish I were well enough."

"Patience." Sharpe licked his lip, swallowed, the bob of his adam's apple distinct in his throat.

"Such wisdom!"

"Ay. I couldn't face stitching you again - I threw up last time..."

Carlyle laughed out loud, his hand falling to his side. "You what?"

"You heard."

"And you a soldier."

"That, was different..."

"Oh, I am sorry!"

"Glad I made you laugh." Sharpe was grinning too, though somewhat crookedly.

Carlyle sat down suddenly, the laughter gone from his face along with most of the colour.

"Jamie!" Sharpe was kneeling at his side, concern bleak on his face.

"I'm fine."

"Tell me the truth!"

Carlyle shook his head. "No, I am..." He took a gingerly breath and began to relax. "I think maybe I should go back to bed."

"I knew this was a bad idea."

"Don't fuss, I'll be fine, maybe I just over-stretched myself."

"Come on." Sharpe got an arm around his friend and hoisted him upright. They stood unsteadily for a moment, then began to walk. "I'm not letting you out of bed at all tomorrow, maybe all next week."

"I'll be fine..."

"Shut up and concentrate on getting up the stairs, I swear you're heavier than before." Sharpe was getting short of breath, supporting nearly all of the other man's weight. "I don't fancy carrying you."

"Surprised you managed it at all, first time."

"Needs must... Now will you be quiet!"

"Whatever you want."

"Really?"

They were at the top of the stairs, and Carlyle stopped moving, waiting until Sharpe locked eyes with him. "Anything."

Sharpe swallowed, licked at the sweat coating his upper lip, amusement battling with concern. "Now you tell me."

"I know how to pick the moment."

"I'll say." With his free hand, Sharpe wiped over his own face. "Are you going to stop talking so I can get you into bed?"

"I expect so."

Seen so close, Carlyle was pale, amused, slightly unfocused as if he was drunk. Sharpe gave in to inclination and placed a quick kiss on his cheek. Then, with a grin at the blinking reaction, he took the other man's weight and started walking.

*

Sharpe waited until Carlyle was asleep, which was not long at all, before leaving the bedroom and walking back downstairs. After the initial concern, it was clear that Carlyle had simply overtaxed his strength, not opened the wound or created any of the other complications - such as putrefaction - that Sharpe's mind had been milling with after the collapse. Sure that Carlyle would be asleep for a long time, Sharpe had pulled on his greatcoat and left. He needed to walk in the air, the scare having shaken him far more than he wished to acknowledge.

Boot-heels loud on the hall's wooden floor-boards, he headed for the door, only to stop and turn as a voice called his name.

"Mister Sharpe!"

"Annie."

"I'm just leaving, and I wondered if there was anything else you wanted." Annie Maxted had taken off her apron and put a fresh cap over her greying hair, a thick wool wrap was pulled around her shoulders. "There's food in the pantry and Ned's taken the last load of washing away."

"Thanks, I can't think of anything else."

"Of course, if the kitchens here were used, then the washing could be done in the laundry rooms, so it wouldn't have to be taken away."

Sharpe sighed to himself, but summoned a smile and an answer to her subtle request. "I don't know what will be happening when his lordship's back on his feet."

She bobbed her head in a nod, eager to show her appreciation of that fact. "He looked quite well today, despite whatever has been wrong with him."

He ignored the unsubtle fish for information. "He did. But he overdid it all a bit, so he's sleeping now."

"It'll be while then before you want the upstairs rooms done."

"Ay. I'll let you know."

"Good. It's easy enough to get help now, but come Spring there won't be so many idle hands willing to come and work." Small, monstrously efficient, she clearly had her sights set on transforming the house into something gracious, probably with herself as housekeeper.

"Well as may be, but I don't want the upper rooms disturbed, not yet." And certainly not while only one room was occupied. If the eagle-eyed woman knew they shared a bed... Sharpe could feel a flush starting under his collar.

"Let me know in good time, won't you sir."

He smiled tightly. "I will."

"And don't forget about the kitchens."

A frown tugged at his brows. "Why does having the kitchens working mean that the washing can be done here?"

"Hot water to wash, and hot air to dry. Goodness knows, the kitchen rooms here are old enough, but at least they had the sense to put the laundry in the right place."

"I see."

"It would mean proper hot food, too."

"Ay, and a cook." Sharpe was mentally tallying the wages needed to employ the sort of household Annie Maxted was seeming to suggest. He found it quite a horrific calculation.

She nodded and smiled at his understanding. "Yes, maids. This house could be well run again."

Bloody hell, she'd be wanting a butler and footmen next. Sharpe knew that her mother had in turn worked here, and all these ideas were from what the house had been like twenty years before. He doubted if it would ever be like that again, he just could think of no way to dent her enthusiasm without getting rid if her entirely. Though if she became too commanding then he'd have to do just that. "So it could."

For all her determination, she must have heard the cool chill in his voice. "Well, sir. Like I said, I'm off home now. I'll be back in the morning." She cleared her throat discreetly. "I thought, as it is still Winter and like I said there are plenty of idle hands, I thought I'd ask some of the women up again, get the kitchens clean."

She left the question hanging and he sighed. There was money enough left for that. Just. And it would be better done than not. "You see to it, Annie. Let me know what you need."

"That's lovely!" The lines on her face broke into seams as she smiled widely. "Good day to you, then."

"And to you."

He watched as she bustled away; the soul of a general in a homely, housewife's body. If she'd been running the stores in Spain the army would never have gone hungry. Cheered by the outrageous thought, Sharpe was feeling far happier as he stepped outside.

The snow had almost completely gone, a few pockets were left here and there, but in the dull afternoon light, most of the view from the house's steps was of muddied grass and bare trees. Sharpe set off towards the trees which skirted the once ornamental gardens. He had walked through here the day he arrived, and even in the dark the lack of care had been apparent. Now, in the day, it was seen to be shameful. Flowerbeds were rank with rotting weeds, the grass was wild, though now crushed by the snow and frost. There were apple and pear trees to the south of the house, untended, and a long glass encased vinery held the diseased remains of what plants Sharpe could only guess at.

Then of course there were the remains of the demolished part of the building. Sharpe supposed that the house must one have been a single, rectangular block. That structure had been enlarged by two heavy wings, out of proportion to the grace of the older part, but undoubtedly sweet to the eyes of whichever of Carlyle's many gloomy ancestors had caused them to be built.

Reaching the incline that led up to the trees, Sharpe paused and turning, looked critically at the house. In truth the whole place was a mess, one not made any prettier by the huge piles of ivy that were waiting for finer weather to be burned. In many places the walls were in terrible order, the brick crumbling and the wooden window frames rotted beyond repair. Even the roof was a muddle of missing tiles and cracked chimney-pots, explaining why some of the upstairs rooms were damp and mildewed, beyond that which even lack of habitation should have caused. In truth, the worst of all the damage was in the other wing, not in the main body of the house, as if those older builders had put more care and skill into their work than those who followed, and if that could be pulled down...

Sharpe frowned, considering, and was completely lost in his plans, uncaring of the wind that snapped his coat about his heels and his hair into his eyes. Even of the fact he was not alone.

"Hello."

Sharpe spun hard about and was reaching for his sword before he remembered he'd last worn it close to a year before. He heard laughter before his eyes found the man standing in the trees, the brown of his clothes perfect disguise against the dun of winter wood and undergrowth.

"I'm not after your skin or your purse, so there's no need to look as if I am." The laugh again. "Though I don't think I'd be coming up on you unannounced if you had that sword you were reaching for at your side."

Sharpe, bereft of anything to say, watched as the stranger pushed himself away from the tree-trunk and came lightly down the bank until he stood a few paces away. Dressed in romantic disarray, with a bright kerchief tied about his neck and tucked into an open shirt, he was lean, with dark hair pulled back into a tail at his neck, though strands escaped to curl around a handsome face. There was little doubt that he was one of Carlyle's tinkers; the hungry ones.

Sharpe drew himself up, his face unwelcoming. "I must remember to start wearing it again."

"Now, don't be like that." The grin was beginning to irritate Sharpe immensely. "I'm only being friendly."

"That's what I'm afraid of." The man, unsurprisingly, was Irish. the familiar brogue set Sharpe's teeth on edge. "What are you after, more food?"

"Very clever! His lordship was uncommon generous the last time." Astute blue eyes inspected Sharpe. "My name's Danny, if you're interested."

"I'm not. And any food here for you will be left at the kitchen." Sharpe narrowed his eyes. "Though I wouldn't get to count on it too much."

"Now, taking the food from starving babies! The rich are getting worse." Danny looked mournfully at the sky, addressing his last comment clearly to God.

Pricked, Sharpe responded, "I'm not rich."

"Richer than me!" The man was impossible. And he was still smiling, as relaxed and easy as could be. Sharpe could feel his teeth beginning to grind together.

"Maybe so."

"And he's as rich as anything." The dark head nodded towards the great house.

"I wouldn't bank on that." Realisation flooded through Sharpe along with fury that Carlyle could let this rogue could take such advantage. "And whatever else you've been taking away from the house I want it back!"

"Whatever else?" The words were wary, the laughter suddenly false.

"You heard. I know your type, bloody thieves one and all."

"Now, that's unkind!"

"Am I wrong?"

The tinker shrugged, pushed a lock of hair out of his eye, tucking it behind an ear pierced with an elaborately twisted gold ring. Then he grinned again, cocky as anything. "No, but whatever we've had from that house, my lord James down there gave it away, I never had to steal a thing."

"The fool!" Shaking his head in disbelief, Sharpe wondered what Carlyle would have to say to all this.

"Not him - he's a real gentleman, if ever there was one."

"Likely so." Sharpe threw a disgusted look towards the house. "But whatever he is, and whatever he's said to you in past, I don't want to see you round here again, understand?"

"Does that mean we're being ordered off the land?"

For the first time there was real emotion in the soft voice, and Sharpe considered the matter, only to find he couldn't really go that far. After all, Carlyle obviously had a soft spot for the disreputable figure, for whatever reason. "No, you can stay camped where you are - just don't come bothering at the house."

For a tinker, the man gave an inordinately graceful bow, and Sharpe had to stop himself in irritation as he almost followed suit. Danny straightened, winked and gave a fine salute to the air. "Whatever you say!"

The answer Sharpe gave was closer to a growl.

"Goodbye then..."

Sharpe bit back on any comment at all.

"I'll be seeing you around!"

"Not if I can help it..." But Sharpe's words were spoken under his breath as the gypsy turned on his heel and walked easily away. He waited until the man had gone from his sight, disappearing into the trees. "Bloody rogue!" Sharpe muttered, then sent a curse after him, though it was half-hearted, admiration for such self-possession close to out-weighing annoyance.

Somehow a walk didn't seem such at attractive proposition anymore. He kicked at the earth and glared at nothing, then turned on his heel, walking back the way he had come. If everything the Gypsy had said was true, and there really was no reason to doubt him, Carlyle had been confoundedly generous. The food was understandable, but the house was bare of many things, so much so that Sharpe's interest had been stirred. There was little silver, and almost no ornaments: he had visited enough fine houses to know that mantles were rarely bare and that cupboards were never empty. It was a different side to Carlyle, such generosity. Even if it was only caused by lack of interest. It was strange, but here in England Sharpe was seeing a very different side of the man. Or was he? He frowned. For all his outward shell of indifference and arrogance, Carlyle often acted with compassion. Sharpe remembered waking to the feel of those hands doctoring him, then another time knowing that Carlyle had sat with one of his men while he died, an act few commanders would consider a necessity. Also, he had refrained from killing Sharpe, for one reason or another. Even if the alternative had been perhaps more cunningly vindictive.

No, fathoming his character was decidedly more complicated than on first meeting it would ever appear. Traitor and spy, turncoat and patriot, doctor and devil. Encourager of very beguiling, blue-eyed, black-haired gypsies.

That thought made Sharpe frown, for just how beguiling had he been? And exactly how had he paid for all the gew-gaws and food he had carted away? Maybe all the kindliness was in fact just simple barter, goods in exchange for that slim body: in another time and place Sharpe could have been tempted himself, the black-Irish were a damnably charming lot. Indeed, such an answer would make Carlyle less outlandishly difficult a character to understand. In fact it seemed a very likely explanation. Not one that Sharpe liked, but better than trying to think of him mourning the dead for so long. So, one mystery solved to leave a handful of others still darkly shrouded in secrecy, such as in the unmentioned wife for one, and the hatred of the English for another; matters Carlyle seemed in no hurry to discuss. Not that Sharpe had found the necessary courage to ask anything important, Carlyle's indisposition merely a fine excuse to put off what he expected were to be answers he'd rather not know.

In a suddenly black mood, Sharpe stopped in his tracks. He turned and glared at the line of trees, his breath clouding in the air. Then in a swirl of coat he went back to the house, walking mud half-way to the stairs before he realised what he was doing.

*


	10. decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> moving on...

*

Sharpe was up and dressed early the next day, though he did return to the bedroom with breakfast. Carlyle was sitting up, looking much better. So much so that he obviously thought to get a salvo in first. With obscure calculations hidden behind his dark eyes he watched as Sharpe deposited the tray on a table. "Morning." He stretched lazily. "I thought I'd get up after breakfast." He tried a smile to go with the statement that was really a question.

"Did you." Sharpe looked at him. "Well, I think I should take those stitches out."

Carlyle groaned. "Today?"

"Now even."

"Before breakfast!"

Despite himself, Sharpe had to smile. "Come on, it won't take long, and you can think of breakfast as a reward."

Carlyle fingered his side through the cotton of his nightshirt. The skin itched under his touch, as it had done for a couple of days. He'd had to stop himself from getting the scissors out the previous night, the only thing stopping him being the thought of Sharpe's reaction had he done so. That, and a certain nagging worry that once he was well there would be no excuse for Sharpe to stay, and he was quite certain that Sharpe did need an excuse. "Very well."

"So gracious." Sharpe turned and picked up the scissors off the mantle. "Let me at it then, lie down."

Carlyle ignored the other man's directness, seeing it as nothing more than a soldierly desire to get on once a course of action was decided upon. He settled back, pulling his shirt out of the way. Sharpe hardly looked at him, a tight frown between his brows discouraging comment. Carlyle watched and noted, though he was only really surprised when Sharpe performed the excision of the stitches without a word, but as it hardly hurt, and what there was of pain was over very quickly, he ignored it. When the last piece of cotton was free he did try and peer down to look at the skin, but was pushed flat.

"You're fine."

"I want to see." Carlyle tried just lifting his head, but all he could see was Richard's arm across his belly.

Sharpe appraised the scar. It was about two inches long, the original hole caused by the shot widened from when he had dug around inside to clean the wound. It looked slightly red, though not unhealthy, was warm to the touch, the cotton had come loose cleanly, with no blood, just a little clear fluid that he knew from his own experience was nothing to fret about. The rest of the skin was pale, untouched by the sun: a few freckles dusted like spilled powder down the flat chest, but no colour apart from the smooth cream. Sharpe blinked at the direction his thoughts were taking, chastising himself.

His abstraction was interrupted. "Richard!"

Sharpe looked up, his expression clouded. "What?"

"Let me see."

As Carlyle's hand touched his arm, Sharpe abruptly stood. He paused for a moment, then, going to head of the bed he slid one arm beneath the wide, bony shoulders and helped Carlyle sit forward, heaping pillows before easing him back.

Carlyle was squinting down with critical interest, for all the world unknowing, or uncaring, of his companion's unease. "It looks well. You did a fine piece of work, Richard, thank you."

"It was a pleasure." The gruff answer was spoken from across the room. Sharpe went to the tray, picked it up and returning, placed it on the bed. "There, your reward." He turned away immediately.

"Aren't you going to share it with me?" Carlyle asked, but Sharpe was already heading for the door.

"No, I ate in the kitchen." He opened the door.

"Where are you going?"

Sharpe hesitated, hand on the door-knob, then came back for his discarded greatcoat. "Out."

"Rich..." Carlyle gave up on the name, for the other man was already gone and the door closed. He frowned at the innocent wood. Something had set Sharpe out of kilter, and the puzzle would be in working out exactly what that something was. Of course he might just be in need of a long walk in the fresh air, he was, after all far more used to an out-door life. Though the months in London you would have thought might have altered that.

He settled back into the pillows and picked up a hunk of bread, idly beginning to butter it. Whatever it was, it had happened the previous day. Trapped as he was in the one room, Carlyle could only speculate as to what that something might have been and such ignorance was hard for him to bear. For so many years his survival had depended on the fine thread of his intelligence, of his knowledge. Locked in this room he knew nothing, and here there wasn't even a web of informants to keep him abreast of matters.

To which there was only one answer - he had to get up.

With his fingers he examined his side. It really was healed well. If he pressed the flesh complained, but the pain was nothing to what it had been, and damn-it-all, he felt so much better. He let his hand fall to the covers and sighed up at the wood canopying the bed. Lying here wouldn't win Richard round; lying here would probably just win him an empty house. Something he didn't want at all.

With a sigh he pushed the sheets back and dangled his legs over the edge of the bed. It had been a long time since he had seduced anyone, let alone attempting such means on a man, It would be interesting to see if it worked. More than interesting, especially with matters of such importance at stake.

He stood up, muttering under his breath as his warm feet made contact with the chilly floor, though it was a good incentive to getting dressed. He felt no undue weakness, no giddiness, facts that made him quite happy. Stripping off his night-shirt he crossed to the basin and hastily washed in the cold water, not having the patience to wait for any to heat, or even to see if there was any water ready by the fire. Now he knew what there was to be done he was impatient: a battle could be lost with tardiness, and he had no intention of losing this, or any other part of this particular war.

Still damp at the edges he dressed in the same warm clothes Sharpe had found for him the previous day, merely discarding the soiled linen and putting on fresh. He eyed the pile of shirts with mild surprise, wondering where the bulk of them had gone. Sharpe had indeed used some, but the amount was so reduced that it couldn't all be put down to him. Carlyle raised a brow then dismissed the matter, sure that there was an explanation somewhere.

Soft cotton drawers, wool shirt, trousers in fine-woven dark wool, thick hose, short boots that took longer to put on than all the rest. After that effort he sat on the bed to catch his breath, and was there when he heard a noise outside the window. As he turned brightness flooded into the room, as if the sun had suddenly risen to fill every corner with honeyed light. Carlyle was on his feet, surprise lending speed to his movements, so he was at the casement, staring out, as the ivy was pulled in a great swathe of dust and roots and falling leaves away from the wall.

Carlyle waited until the cloud of dirt settled, then awkwardly pushed up the window to lean out. On the ground was Sharpe, staring up, wiping one hand across his face, the other holding the hook he had used to pry the ivy away from the wall. The boy, Ned, was close by, starting to drag a great clump of the plant away.

"That's better!" Carlyle called down, dust and cold tickling the lining of his nose. He sneezed once.

"Bless you."

"Thanks!"

"I thought you could do with some light up there."

Carlyle could see the quick grin that transformed Sharpe's hard face with amusement. He also saw how fast the expression disappeared. Its lack made him aware how much he wanted the laughter back, how much the other man's pleasure, his happiness actually meant. "So I can see all the cobwebs?"

"Maybe."

So he could see Richard Sharpe naked across his bed without the benefit of candle-light. A Richard Sharpe laughing with delight, aroused and ready, his skin warm and pale gold in the sun's light. The thought caused a pulsing at Carlyle's groin, one he firmly ignored; though he was happy that the window-sill was the height it was. "Is this the last wall to be cleared?"

"Ay. The brick-work is a bit poor in places, but it'll do until the summer, it can be sorted out then."

Will you be here to supervise it though, Carlyle wondered. He sighed to himself. "Good enough." He nodded, couldn't think of anything to say.

"Are you dressed?" There was suspicion there.

"Mmm, I thought I would."

The silence held between then like a tight-rope, Carlyle quite aware that Sharpe was fighting some battle within himself. Then without further comment, just a single long look at the man leaning on the window-sill, Sharpe turned away and began to break the ivy up.

Curious. Carlyle, eyes narrowed, pondered on that. Coincidentally he found himself fascinated by the casually graceful movements of the slim body, how it turned and bent. How, when Sharpe, hot from the heavy work, discarded his coat, the bending became even more interesting, the heavy wool of his trousers inadequate disguise for a nicely rounded arse and strong, fine muscled legs. He wondered what it would feel like to have them wrapped around his waist, to have that lithe body under his own.

Carlyle turned back into his bedroom and closed his eyes. For a moment he felt giddy with the sort of desperate need he hadn't felt in years. He took a deep breath and told his body to be quiet. His cock gave a half-hearted throb then began to subside, his head cleared, leaving the strong arousal as a shadowy memory; one that was to follow him for the rest of the day.

Straightening himself, Carlyle left the room and made a sedate way downstairs. A woman was carrying a pile of linen across the hall, she started at his appearance and disappeared hurriedly back towards the kitchens, making him raise a brow in amusement, wondering how the village saw him. An ogre maybe, or plain wicked. He was sure rumour abounded, of all hues, that was the way of the world. Still, his reputation couldn't be that bad, not if someone as God-fearing as Annie Maxted was willing to work here.

Carlyle made his way into the library, a fire burned steadily in the grate, presumable for Sharpe, as no one could have anticipated his appearance out of the sick-room today. He gave the room a contented survey, then sat down in his favourite chair, stretching long legs before him and threading his fingers together in his lap. In the distance he could hear voices, could identify Sharpe's with ease, even though words were indistinguishable. It was a pleasant backdrop to his thoughts, to hear other people around. Apart from the occasional visits by the gypsy, there had been no one here apart from Ned for a long time. Too long.

With a blink of surprise he realised that the warmth he was feeling was contentment, a feeling so alien that he almost didn't recognise it for what it was. A smile played around his lips, never quite fulfilling its promise, but the feeling stayed.

He settled back and closed his eyes.

To wake when a young girl brought him in a tray of tea. He poured for himself and sipped it slowly. Sharpe made no appearance, though once he walked past the window and several times his voice could be heard around the house and in the garden. Carlyle read in a desultory way and dozed. In that fashion the afternoon passed, until he was told that supper was ready, and that Mister Sharpe had gone into the village and would be eating there. Alone, he ate a good rabbit pie and drank half a bottle of good claret. Then, though it had not long been dark, took himself off to bed.

Sleep took longer coming that he could have wished. He watched the moon make her way across the window, and listened, mildly irritated with himself, for Sharpe's return. Instead of footsteps he heard the night-sounds: an owl, hunting; a fox barking some message to its kin; the wind whistling gently though the chimneys. None of it acted as a lullaby. That task was saved for Sharpe, who came in quite drunk, though he was as quiet as he was able. He stood for a long time leaning on the closed door, until Carlyle almost stopped pretending to be asleep. But after a while Sharpe moved, shedding his clothes and climbing into bed, to lie and fall immediately into deep and stuporous asleep.

Carlyle opened his eyes, and in the shadows watched him, seeing only a glint of pale hair and the straight line of his nose. He wondered about where Sharpe had been, and what he had been doing, though the thoughts were cushioned by tiredness. After a while he closed his eyes, resting one hand very close the other's warmth. Ridiculously the sound of his companion's snores performed the task the night-time silence had been incapable of; that of lulling Carlyle to sleep.

*

When Carlyle awoke it was morning, and it desultory sunlight trailed weakly across the bed - a bed empty of any occupant but himself. He blinked sleepily and ran his hand over the sheet, to find it quite cold. Long gone then. He rolled onto his side, immediately awake, though disinclined to move, a cloud of depression settling like an old friend around him.

For it to be ending before it had really begun... It was either a tragedy or a comedy, he wasn't sure which, refusing to delve too deeply into what Sharpe's evident need to keep away from him meant. He lay still for a while, then sat up, running his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. There was no point staying in bed. He felt well enough, so it was time to get up and dressed. But he lay still for a moment longer, long enough so that when the door opened he was almost back asleep.

It was Sharpe, carrying a tray of breakfast things. He looked pale, slightly pink around the edges as if he'd just scrubbed himself. In fact his hair was still darkly damp.

"Was it a good night?" Carlyle pushed himself up until he was leaning against the head-board in order to get a better view.

"Good enough." Sharpe put the tray down with a rattle of crockery.

"And how's your head?"

That at least brought a wry grin. "I thought someone had been using it for an anvil when I woke."

"I wondered. What cured you?"

"A long spell under the pump and a mystery cure Annie made me drink." He grimaced. "Lord, but it was vile!"

"But it worked."

"Oh, ay, it worked. Though I wouldn't plant anything too near the kitchen door for a while..."

"Indeed." Carlyle gave a sympathetic shrug. "So, what's for breakfast?" He was in fact surprisingly hungry.

Sharpe turned back into the room and picking up the tray from the table where he had left it, carried it over to the bed. "There, bread and honey and tea."

"Where's yours?"

"I've eaten." Sharpe fussed about the room for a while, then sat down at the end of the bed, his back propped on a post, happily surprising Carlyle who had assumed he would leave as soon as the tray was safely delivered. "Good?"

"Mmm." Carlyle had his mouth full.

"According to Mrs. Maxted, to keep this place in the fashion she would like will need an army of servants."

"Like in my father's day, I suppose she means."

Sharpe nodded. "How many were there?"

"Forty, thereabouts. Though most of what they lived in has been pulled down, and not all of them lived-in."

"I should hope not! Bloody hell..."

"It was indulgent, having so many." Jamie sipped at his tea. "He often meant to get rid of some, but they were so impressive for visitors."

"Must've been."

Carlyle considered taking a gamble. There was little to lose, if Sharpe was going, then there would be no way to keep him here, short of locking him in the cellars - an idea that had a certain appeal, but might destroy something in their relationship. No, a gamble it had to be. "We don't have to have any, you know."

"The house won't keep itself." Sharpe pulled at a loose thread on the bed-cover, gloomy.

Either he had missed the plurality of the statement or he was intending on staying. Carlyle looked at the answer eight different ways, but the results were still inconclusive. He tried again, with less subtlety. "We could sell up. Move abroad."

"Is that what you want?" Shocked, Sharpe lifted his eyes and met Carlyle's.

"Do you?" The question was countered with a question.

"No."

"And neither do I. But this place is a millstone, and a not particularly attractive one at that."

"It could be."

"Really?"

"Ay! if you finished what your father began, pulled down that crumbling wing, maybe." Enthusiasm animated Sharpe's face, making him lean forward to press the argument.

"Would you want that?"

Sharpe nodded, then caught himself, torn between what he dreamed uncertainly of and what he saw as the more likely future. He hesitated, trying to extricate the truth from Carlyle's guarded words. "The house could be a fine place to live, but it's not mine. What do you think?"

"Despite everything, I have to say that I like it here." Carlyle smiled. "And if you do as well, then I am very lucky."

"Maybe we both are."

"Indeed."

Sharpe watched the smile that went with the word. "I went up onto the hill yesterday, looked down on the house. It could be so...right."

"I know. Thank god my father never got around to pulling the whole thing down. We could do with some alterations though, like water-closets and a bathroom or two."

"Wouldn't it cost a fortune to get the water up here?" Sharpe looked speculative, as if he was already working on the problem.

"Maybe, but we could find out."

Sharpe was lost in thought for a while, then he lent forward and stole a honeyed piece of bread from in front of Carlyle's eyes, who only smiled and began another slice before it all disappeared.

"How rich are you?"

Slightly taken aback by the suddenness of the question, Carlyle paused. "I don't know. There's money in the bank in London, certainly, but as to the estates, I'd have to see my cousin."

"Cousin?"

"Giles. He ran the everything while I was away, then just continued to do so. I never bothered to disturb him, it didn't seem worth it."

"Maybe you should have done, it looks to me as if he's done a lousy job."

"I know, he's a literary man, not an estate manger." Carlyle sighed. "I saw it all falling to pieces, but I couldn't be bothered to do anything about it. It never meant enough to me to care."

"He'll get a surprise then, when you turn up all eager." Sharpe, for some reason, looked extremely pleased at the prospect.

"What made you so pleased that he'll have his nose pushed out of joint?"

"I can't stand people who do a rotten job, and from what I've seen of this place, what he's been doing couldn't be more rotten if he'd tried."

"He's good enough hearted." Carlyle waved away the problem airily.

Sharpe decided to wait and see. Then he remembered the other reason for his ill humour. "I met another friend of yours yesterday."

"Really? I didn't think I had any around here."

"Danny, he said his name was."

"Ah."

"Ah indeed. Bloody thief."

"Thief?" Carlyle put down the handkerchief he had been wiping his mouth with. "What makes you think that?"

"He as good as admitted it." Sharpe took a breath then with a grimace recanted the statement. "Well, he never said he'd thieved from here, said he'd never needed to, as you gave the stuff to him!"

"I did." Carlyle shook his head, confused at his friend's vehemence. "What's wrong with that, I only gave him stuff that was to be thrown away anyway. And the food he needed, at the time far more than me." He blinked.

"I didn't like him."

The bald statement raised Carlyle's eyebrow. "Why?"

Sharpe looked down, rolling a tiny piece of fabric he'd picked away from the bed-cover in his fingers. Then, as if in disgust, he threw it onto he floor. "He's too damned engaging."

"I see."

"And handsome."

"Indeed."

Sharpe had never been jealous of another man in the same way, it was a strange experience. He'd imagined the two of them in bed far too often since meeting the gypsy. Far too often. "And he was here, talking with you, being with you..."

"Talking. That was all that ever happened." Carlyle waited, then when Sharpe didn't lift his head he spoke his name, softly: "Richard." There was anger in the green eyes, but most of it seemed directed inwards. "He is nothing to me, nothing at all. I felt pity for his poverty and concern for his wife and child."

"Wife?"

"Mmm. Not every man feels the way we do about our own kind."

"I know that..." Sharpe blustered.

"And, besides," Carlyle spoke over Sharpe's words. "Had he come crawling into my bed, begging me, I would still have been without interest. I wanted you, Richard Sharpe. When I thought you dead, I lost interest in all things." He smiled sadly. "Had Danny been a Ganymede or Adonis he could not have stirred my blood." He paused, then wagered with everything he possessed. "But you, you merely have to breath and I want you."

Sharpe sat back, the statement sinking through his lacking confidence, his insecurity, his misery. After a moment, he gave a soft, shaky laugh. "You must think me a fool."

"No, I think you delightful. Now take the tray away and come here."

Sharpe obeyed, kicking his boots off before sitting himself next to Carlyle.

"Kiss me, as you did yesterday."

Sharpe lent forward, then hesitated. "Jamie, you came close to fainting then."

"Well, I'm at least in the right place now."

"True." A smile began to lift the corners of Sharpe's mouth, his eyes wary and needy at the same time. "As long as a kiss is all you have in mind..."

"Oh, I have many things in mind, Richard, but even I am not optimistic enough to think we will be doing them today. Now come here and be quiet."

Sharpe went.

The kiss was gentle, kind. Breath swept softly between them, shared, warmth folding around them as hesitancy turned into the first stirrings of passion. Sharpe was the first to open his lips and reach out with his tongue, a shiver running through his limbs as Carlyle's mouth opened, and a darting tongue met his own. It was so heady, so sweet. And the gypsy had never been here...surprising that it meant so much, when neither of them were virgins. He smiled around the lips that possessed his own and lifting one hand held it to Carlyle's head, deepening the kiss, tasting honey, tasting dreams. Every part of him responded when a low, throaty moan of pleasure seeped up into Carlyle's mouth and from there into his own, the sound soaking into his blood, to flame there like Greek fire.

He was moaning himself, moaning so low that it took him a while to understand that the noise came from himself. He broke the kiss and the sudden silence almost hurt his ears. He looked at Carlyle and saw, somehow, the direct echo of his own desires, saw the reddened lips, the half-closed, lust-dazed eyes. Sharpe swallowed, licked his lips, tasted Carlyle, watched as the long cupid's bow parted to echo the act. So delicious. A hand touched skin, startled, he looked down, found his shirt undone. When? It didn't matter, he pushed the cotton away without hesitation, off his shoulders onto the floor. Then Carlyle's fingers were at his waist. "Wait..."

"Why?" Carlyle's voice was thickened, as unrecognisable as his own.

Sharpe stood and unfastened himself, bared himself to the eager gaze. He stood quite still. It was like being eaten alive, that arrogance feasting on his flesh, admiring, wanting. A pearly drop fell from his arcing cock, threaded to the floor. More was already forming in its wake.

"Come here..." Carlyle pulled off his nightshirt and shifted until he lay flat. His body was as impatient as Sharpe's, as close. "Lie with me?"

"Ay..." And in wonder Sharpe lay himself along-side the other man, reaching his arms around Carlyle as he turned on his side, matching limb to limb, belly to belly, arousal making the world dip and sway. As they touched, each drew in a sharp breath, surprise warring with the strangest sense that the surprise was an error, that this was homecoming, the only finish to what had been started all those years ago in Spain. Sharpe laughed, the soft sound one of amazement.

Carlyle was stroking a hand through the long, pale hair, watching the thin face, recognising the emotion and seconding it. "We belong here." A shudder slid through the muscles of the body in his arms. "Don't we?"

"Ay, Jamie. More than I've ever belonged anywhere."

"Stay?"

"Yes."

Though all air was gone from their lungs, from somewhere they found the will to kiss. Sharpe saw the molten need that closed his lover's eyes, saw what words would never tell him. He gave in to the demand. The press of flesh into his belly was as insistent as the pain deep in himself. He moved, feeling the return of pressure, the equality of need. The kiss hovered still between them, their lips brushing together, the occasional murmur all that was needed as their bodies found a rhythm, a pull and press of need that lasted too little time, both beyond sophistication, mating like schoolboys, heated and fast, until first one and then the other stiffened, any sound they might have made stifled by each open mouth, as they spilled their seed in hot swathes that spread between them, gluing their bellies stickily together.

Sharpe came to himself with Carlyle's head tucked into the crook of his shoulder. The bed-covers were pulled high around them, yet he had no idea who'd had the foresight to manage that before sleep took them both away. Dry mouthed he licked his lips and hesitantly ran his fingers across the dark-blond hair. There was gray of steel in amongst the barley and wheat, a few strands here and there of absolute white. Neither of them was young anymore, not really. Old age was still what felt like a lifetime away, but youth was a distant landmark, one that could still be seen, but not returned to. And all the years they wasted.

No more. There would be no more waste of any kind. His hand clasped possessively and unwittingly stirred the sleeper who raised his head and blinked.

"Richard..." Sleepy brown eyes stared at him, the head pulled back a couple of inches, his hair rustling against the pillow, and the eyes focused. They were brown, but a sort of reddish brown, the rich colour rimmed about with soft black. "Hello." The lips, more used to expressing scorn, smiled gently.

"Did you expect that?"

"What, that we would make love?"

"Mmm."

"No, not then. But I knew we would soon, if I had my way, of course."

Sharpe gave a small, snorting laugh. "You'd try and twist the weather round your little finger if you thought you could."

"Do you object?"

"Now? No. I'm not making any promises for the future, mind!"

"But I am." Jamie's eyes narrowed, his face suddenly serious as a black-capped judge.

"Are you?" Sharpe ruthlessly quelled the butterflies that were beating at his insides.

"Yes."

"What sort?"

Carlyle took a deep breath, and when he spoke his voice was low, slightly gravelled with both emotion and doubt. He didn't drawl, indulged in no affectation, simply spoke the truth. "The ones I should have made clear in Spain; that I need you, want you, felt incomplete without you. Whatever you want, we'll do. If you want to live here, then the house is yours, if you take a fancy to foreign climes, then we'll go - to Zanzibar if need be." He swallowed so hard that Sharpe could see the dip of adam's apple in his throat, but the only real betrayal of his feelings was the intense cast to his gaze, and the doubt that lingered where none had ever settled before. "'Come live with me, and be my love...', there are many pleasures I would prove with you, Richard Sharpe." It wasn't such a gamble now, but it still felt as if he cast his last farthing on the table when he forced himself to use the words cowards told as lies and brave men hid as truths. "I love you."

"Jamie..."

"I don't expect you to feel the same, I know there is attraction on your side," a small laugh that acknowledged how such intimate conversation had begun. "But if there might..."

"Be quiet." The command was soft and threaded through with something akin to amusement, perhaps closer to that of which they spoke. "I knew I loved you in Spain. After...I left, I thought I hated you, but I seem to be very good at self-deception."

"I've wondered, but in light of all that had happened, all I had done, it seemed ridiculous to hope too much." He paused, rolling slightly away so lay more on his back, his mouth crooked in that familiar pose of derision. "'Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back, guiltie of dust and sinne...'" He turned his eyes back to Sharpe, who had sat forward, his head propped on one bent arm. "I thought of those lines quite often."

"Guilt lies on us both." Sharpe reached his hand out and pushing the cover away traced the healing wound in his companion's side.

"Enough for one to cancel the other out?"

"You didn't try and kill me."

"Only because I considered what I did worse than death. Have no illusions, my love, I wanted to hurt you as much as I believed myself hurt, and I knew the easiest way to accomplish such a thing."

"Can we wipe the slate clean, start afresh with nothing written on our account?"

"I believe so."

Such conviction, how could it be denied. "Then, it is done, forgotten." Their hands found each other and wound together.

"Today we begin again." Carlyle grinned unexpectedly, his happiness making Sharpe smile too, until they laughed madly, like lunatics intoxicated by the full moon.

*

The rest of the day they hardly left each others sight. They touched with no excuse, held each other and talked endlessly of everything and of nothing. Evening came and they ate a frugal meal, each too concerned with things other than food to care. Then, with little complaint on either side, they returned to bed, to touch once more and feel that utter sense of completion that came at the slightest contact. Not that they were abstemious in touch. They investigated skin with the enthusiasm of explorers given new lands to chart, kissed and whispered of their contentment, their joy.

Sharpe refused to let Carlyle move too much, worried as its owner was not, about the state of the wounded side. They still made love with the enthusiasm of youth, the bone deep sense of rightness not needing any acrobatics, though afterwards, Carlyle promised much when he was well. Promised and warned, for he was not always such an even-handed lover, and he only had to look on Sharpe's naked body to want it, to possess it in the way that only a man could. Not that he spoke exactly of such things, yet still he knew it was something they both wanted, something that would bind them as not even marriage vows could.

Afterwards they slid into each others arms and from there it was a short journey into sleep, and they hardly stirred the night through, though foxes quarrelled outside their window and a barn-owl, thwarted in its hunt by the brightness of the moon, hooted its frustration to the scattered clouds.

The next day the magic that held them above the concerns of the world was still in place. They lazed the morning away, then washed and dressed, they made their way down to a dining room cleaned and sparkling for their delectation. There they partook of a fine luncheon of jugged hare and pastries, of baked trout, of cheese and apples, all taken with the digestive of a fine bottle of claret.

They lingered long after the meal was over, talking as if they had just met, each cradling the last dregs of wine in his glass, each unwilling to do much more than stare at his companion and feel a sense of awe that this - this - had come from such chaos, such pain, all while idly discussing the way the house should be redesigned.

Sharpe placed his glass back on the table and stretched. He was full with food, slightly muzzy from the wine. There was a lull in their talk and he felt quite sleepy.

"Do you fancy a walk - not too long, I promise."

Sharpe sat forward from where he had slouched, almost ready to doze. "A walk, are you up to it?"

In answer to the long, speaking look Sharpe had the grace to blush very slightly.

"A walk then. Where do you want to go?" He scraped his chair back and stood up, hitching his too large trousers into their belt as he did so.

"Over the hill, maybe." Carlyle was casting an aggrieved look at the clothes that sat so ill on his friend. "As soon as we can we are going to London. You need something that fits better than those," he complained, his dark-timbred voice almost sorrowful. The thick, too large clothing did nothing to display the body they covered. The uniform did, but it was almost a rag - one he had no intention of letting Sharpe part with. Maybe one of the village women skilled with a needle could work some magic on it. But these clothes, when he thought of the body underneath...

"What are you thinking about." Sharpe was smiling down at him, one hand on the newly polished oak of the table. Not that he really had any doubt, the look in the dark eyes spoke quite eloquently of lust.

"How I'd like to see you dressed."

"Oh, no! I remember that silk thing you found for me in Spain. I told you then and I stick by the fact - I am not suited to fancy clothes." Sharpe spoke roughly, he was shyly grinning though; blustering around the fact that there was little this man could ask of him that he wouldn't at least consider.

"Silk has its place." Jamie stood up, walking around the table, his fingers trailing around along the wood until they met skin. "I can promise you that, you Puritan."

"Puritan! Not me, I like my pleasures too much."

"But not silken ones?"

 _Only your voice_ , but he couldn't say it, couldn't bring the words from his thoughts to his lips and then form them. "It's not likely is it, I've lived in a patched uniform most of my life, and counted myself lucky if there was a hedge to sleep under." He licked his lips, shrugged, gruff and quite uneasy. " Can't see me taking to soft things easily."

"You'll have to let me show you how good they can be." Carlyle was very close, his lips almost brushing against the small, close-set ear. "I'll buy silk sheets, see if that doesn't seduce you."

Sharpe shivered. "Jamie..." But the tempter was gone, almost at the door, a wide grin of satisfaction spread without concealment on his face.

"Come on, let's walk off that lunch." He opened the door and left the room, wickedly, and quite knowingly, leaving his companion to the task of trying not to walk bow-legged until his body was under better control.

*

Sharpe pulled on his greatcoat and Carlyle threw a long dun-coloured riding-cape about his own shoulders. The bitter cold had gone, but Spring was still a long way off, the air cold enough to make then want to walk briskly. They left the house by the main doors and walked diagonally across the grounds, heading for a wood shrouded rise.

Sharpe remembered walking across the decaying flower beds with murder in his heart. Now he wondered who exactly he had wanted to kill, Carlyle or himself. Both, maybe. Still, all that was water under the bridge, they had a pact. He started a conversation rather than think. "Who designed the gardens?" It could be seen amidst all the ruin, that once upon a time formal beds and hedges had danced in stately order here.

"My grandfather, I believe. It was all still in good order when I was a child." His eyes surveyed the near wilderness with jaundiced dismissal. "I never liked it much."

"I saw gardens like this in France, all laid out as if with a plumb-line. Some of them were all right."

"But not to your taste."

"Jamie, my knowledge of what is right in a garden is very small. There weren't many plants, let alone formal gardens, around where I grew up."

"London has green places?" Carlyle slowed slightly, his boots making soft sucking sounds in the mud as he walked.

"Ay, but I only saw Leicester Fields as somewhere to hide, lots of bushes a small boy could hide under!" He grinned, a wealth of stories in a quick glance. "I did like the graveyards, though."

"Graveyards!"

"Mmm, St Anne's was always good for a penny. You'd be surprised how sentimental the toffs are, put a child in rags, put it somewhere to remind passers-by of the frailty of their own existence, and just wait for the money to fall into the cap."

Carlyle laughed. "I can see you now. Doubtless I'd have my hand in my pocket as soon as your turned those green eyes on me."

"Girls do better."

"Not with me..."

"No." Sharpe shivered slightly as a warm hand slid into his. "Nor me, not any more."

"Never again?"

Sharpe considered the words and what they meant. He answered as truthfully as he could. "I don't think so."

"I'll have to keep you interested, won't I?"

"I don't think that will be a problem."

Carlyle accepted the look Sharpe threw him with a lustful one of his own. The attraction between them was so strong, he wanted to throw Sharpe to the damp earth and take him, body and soul, knew also that there would be no complaints. Lust shimmered in the air around them, like dust motes in the sun.

They walked so for a while, watching the few birds dance through the naked trees, their thoughts at peace, content in the company each provided for the other, their fingers lightly entwined. The ease lasted only for a few minutes, for a squirrel darted across the path, making them both jump as if attacked: Sharpe reaching for his sword, Carlyle for a non-existent gun. They turned and looked at each other, and each gave a wry shrug.

"So much for civilisation." Carlyle lifted an eyebrow and shook his head very slightly.

"Ay."

"Do you think we'll ever be used to peace - to not thinking death lurks at every corner?"

"It would be great if we could." Sharpe sighed and went on. "But I've been a soldier all my life, so I'm not sure. Not for a while anyway."

"Nor I. I'll just have to remember not to sneak up on you in the dark."

Sharpe stared straight into intent eyes and said quite simply: "I'd know it was you."

"Would you?" Carlyle straightened slightly, his eyes widening from their accustomed wariness and his voice had no doubt in it, simply pleasure.

"Of course." Sharpe stopped in his tracks and scratched the side of his face. "I've never killed one of my own men yet."

Carlyle turned back to face his companion. "Good! A better record than some, I'm sure."

"Oh yes, by accident and deliberation."

He took the few paces that brought him to Sharpe's side. The other man's face was without outward emotion, with hard lines set about the fine mouth, but Carlyle could read him as easily as any book. How long would it be before the duel was no longer so raw in Sharpe's memory? Carlyle cast about him for some way of changing the subject, of diverting his friend. Turning to one side, he spotted a lichen encrusted statue of a woman. He pointed at her, already walking in that direction. "See this, she used to be on guard outside the folly. Unfortunately that fell down when I was ten." He clambered up a steep bank and was staring at the abandoned dryad. "She looks a bit lonely, all alone. Do you think we should move her closer to the house?"

Carlyle was aware when Sharpe reached his side, but being taken into a strong embrace was a great surprise. After his initial shock though, he responded with enthusiasm. So much so, that when they broke apart it was not just the cold that had brought the colour to their cheeks. Jamie licked his lips and wondered about heading straight back indoors.

"Very nice..." He got no further than those couple of words, then broke off in awed silence, for Sharpe was on his knees, long fingers busy at the fastenings of his breeches, pushing him back to rest against the statue. "Richard..." He wanted to protest, to say that someone might see, that this act didn't have to be performed, not here, not now, but after a brief moment of exposure to the air he was swallowed into warmth and there were no words left to express anything. Possessed, he turned, without care, into a creature controlled by the other mouth. He moaned and sighed, felt the breeze dust past his face as a caress, felt the stone behind him as acutely delightful as a feather bed. His eyes closed, then opened again, for the darkness brought panic, and he needed to see, to watch the blond head, so pale against the darkness of their clothing and the winter landscape, busy at his groin, to feel each slight movement with all his senses. Dry mouthed he whispered his lover's name, a silent litany of delight that broke off with a sigh as he shuddered and came, his pleasure finally allowing him to touch the bent head, to press it close, to fill that long, elegant throat with the seed of himself.

It took a moment for the world to right itself. When he blinked and focused Sharpe was already on his feet, wicked green eyes intent, content. With a hand Carlyle investigated the state of his clothing and found everything tucked away, his breeches buttoned.

"I thought it polite to finish what I started." If anything Sharpe sounded smug.

"Thanks."

"It was a pleasure."

"Oh, it was." Carlyle levered himself away from the stone arms and reached for Sharpe. "Now what about you?"

"Ah..."

"Ah?" Carlyle was there, his hand on Sharpe's groin. "I see..."

"Sorry, but I meant it when I said it was a pleasure." He shrugged, embarrassed, pleased.

"What a shame."

"There'll be other times. Wait until the trees are green, there'll be lots of places to indulge."

"And it'll be warmer." Carlyle's eyes showed his appreciation of the thought of them both naked in a sylvan glade. There had to one on the estate somewhere.

"So it will. Shall we continue our walk?"

"What a good idea."

As conspirators they smiled, and touching briefly, made their way back to the path.

They had reached as far as the trees and were breasting the rise of the land when Carlyle remembered something he had always meant ask. "Richard, if you grew up in London, how come your accent is from further north?"

"I was a young child in York, the whorehouse was there. I ran away to the city, well, Dick Whittington did it, so I thought I'd try too."

"Your namesake?"

"Hardly. Reckon I was named after the only bit of my father my mother could remember."

As intended, Carlyle laughed. Sharpe basked in the amusement like a cat in the sun. Making the sombre man amused could become a lifetime's work; one that would be considered well spent.

Carlyle asked, "But why keep the accent?"

"Pig-headedness." A slight shrug of dismissal.

"I see." A simple explanation, Carlyle wondered how near the truth it was. Or had that boy clung to the one thing different about him, in a need to have an identity in a city full of faceless, starving children. "I'm glad you did, I like it."

"Dead common, that's all. The officers' mess never quite got used to it."

"I'd rather you spoke like you do than like a braying ninny - and I met a few who did just that. They all made me want to send them to the stables."

Sharpe snorted in amusement. "I know the sort you mean." He considered Jamie's voice, which was quite perfect. He was cultured without pretension, the slight huskiness helped offset any risibility caused by upbringing, that and the sureness and arrogance that suffused every word.

"It must have been hard, winning acceptance from them."

"I fought well, kept myself to myself." He looked up at the sky, remembering. "And Wellington himself gave me my promotion - that was hard to fight with. I never cared much what they thought."

"I'll wager you didn't make any friends though."

"You'd win. I had respect from some, what I thought was friendship from one, but he changed, became a politician." Sharpe spat the word like a curse.

"What a fool." They had breasted the small hill and were now walking through bare woodland, the house out of sight, their boots crunching through the carpet of twigs and rotting leaves carpeting the ground.

"He was ambitious. I still count him a friend of sorts though."

"Why?"

"Because I'd never have made officer without him."

An enquiring look encouraged him to continue.

"He taught me to read and write. We were captured in India, he wanted something to pass the time, so when he found out that the common soldier they'd thrown him into a cell with was illiterate, he decided to do something about it."

"But how did that help you become an officer?"

"You can't be made up if you can't write."

Carlyle raised a brow then nodded at the good sense of that rule. "The time in the prison was well spent then."

"It was better than it could have been." Sharpe brushed the subject away. "What's the other side of the wood?"

"A small valley with a stream. The gypsies were camped there the last time I looked, though they may have gone now." Carlyle slowed. "How long were you in that prison?"

"Too bloody long!"

"And how good a friend was he, that officer?"

Sharpe made to speak, then stopped, closing his mouth, a snort of amusement emerging instead.

"Well, I like to know about you, about all your past lovers."

"He was a friend, just that." Sharpe laughed out loud. "Christ, you can't know much about the army if you'd think he would have bedded me!"

"You must have been very easy on the eye..."

"I was filthy, and most of the time I had bruises and worse. I don't think even you'd have found me pretty!" Sharpe's amusement was still there, threading through his voice. "He certainly didn't. Though I don't think he noticed how much I stank, as he was just as bad."

"And men become soldiers voluntarily..."

"It's fine enough, most of the time." Sharpe shrugged. "And you played your part, you were one of Hogan's men, uniform or no uniform."

"I was wasn't I." Carlyle spoke softly, absently, as if his companion's words had taken him away into another place.

Sharpe watched him, all nose and narrowed eyes in the cold, cloak pulled high around his neck. "Why did you change sides?"

The words fell into a pool of silence. Sharpe swallowed, he hadn't meant to ask the question that was in his mind, hadn't wanted to, hadn't..."

"My wife and child were Spanish." At the words Sharpe started as if a knife had been pricked into the skin of his back, breath catching in his throat. For a long moment he thought that those few words were to be all of the oblique explanation, but then Carlyle took a long breath and went on. "Well, the boy was not of my blood, but I took him as my own, because she asked it of me, and because I loved her." Carlyle tilted his head slightly to one side, his eyes fixed away from the other man. "We married, then I went to work again, for Hogan. When I returned the town had been attacked and they were dead, killed by a band of soldiers gone wild, renegades. I found out they had raped her first." He turned and met Sharpe's eyes. "Hogan promised he'd find the bastards who did it, but he never tracked them down - I doubt he even tried."

"And you never forgave him."

"I never forgave him for a lot of things." He sighed. "But yes, that was hard. And I was rather mad for a while. Certainly beyond reason."

"Did he try to get you back?"

"A few times. Never came himself, knew what sort of welcome would have awaited him I suppose. And then he sent you, and that was the end of it all."

Sharpe stared at his companion, seeing strain amidst the remembered sorrow. Glancing ahead he saw the trees drew back from the path, and he spotted a fallen tree. "Let's rest up for a bit before we go on."

Jamie eyed the make-do seat he was having pointed out. Sharpe held his breath.

"Very well, a short breather would be good."

They walked together to the fallen trunk and sat, their cloak and coat tails spread around them. Without their footsteps and voices it was very quiet, very still. Bare trees laced the sky around them, the first green shoots, vivid against the brown earth, pushed through the soil at their feet.

"I did wonder what had turned you so violently against your own people. It's not everyday you see an Englishman commanding guerilleros! Hogan never said anything, just sent me off, told me to talk, get you back on our side. You did so much damage with those men of yours." He shook his head admiringly.

"I was good at destruction."

Sharpe reached out and hesitantly smoothed his fingers down the fall of soft hair framing the long face. Saw it as for the first time, saw the contrasts, the arrogance, the sensuality, the bones that could have belonged to a hermit, the lips that should have belonged to a hedonist, all of it a puzzle that was at last being explained. "You were, but you were good at more than that."

"I should have been there!"

"Maybe, but you can't be guilty forever."

Carlyle raised his head quickly, staring eye to eye. "Can't you?"

"No. I thought we had decided that." Sharpe gave a wry smile, and shrugged as if to say, believe your own words.

"I forget her for months at a time, can't remember her face, am no longer sure that I even loved her. Yet I feel guilty."

"Maybe for all those reasons."

Carlyle blinked, startled. "You may be right."

How long did you live together?"

"A couple of months. She was a widow, and I liked her, she was kind and spirited. I like to think we would have been happy."

"My wife was Spanish. She was all that is best of that country, and a bloody Englishman killed her too." He still flinched at the thought. At Hakeswill.

"When did you kill him?"

"A long time after. I'd have killed him a thousand times if I could've, the bastard." Sharpe breathed out hard, his nostrils flaring slightly.

"You loved her very much."

"Her and you. And Harper, though that was different."

"And her murderer is dead, and she is dead, as is my wife, and Spain is a long way away, and Harper is happily married..."

"...and we are here." Sharpe took Carlyle's bony hand in his own.

Jamie nodded. "So we are."

"Starting afresh..."

"Together."

"Ay."

Carlyle looked at the sky, then back at his companion. "Then all is well with the world."

"Seems like it."

"And you don't want more explanations, whys and wherefores?"

"About your wife?"

"Mmm."

"No. If you want to tell me more, you will." He rubbed his thumb over the bony protrusion of Jamie's knuckle. "Maybe it'll give us something to talk about in the long winter nights."

"Talk?"

Sharpe nodded, seeing the suggestion in the single word, amused. "If we have time."

"Ah, I can think of better subjects for romantic conversation."

"Can you?"

"Oh yes. And we will be having those in plenty." He drew Sharpe into the curve of his arm and smiled at the world. "It seems strange that only a month ago I hated living here."

Sharpe shifted until he was half facing Carlyle. "And now?"

"Now I believe it is the most pleasant place on earth."

"Better than Zanzibar?"

"It is Zanzibar." Jamie smiled that soft smile that touched his eyes, and bent his head, reaching for Sharpe's hand which he took to his lips and kissed. "Everything I ever wanted is here. Right here..."

As he straightened, Sharpe pulled him close and they edged together, arms wrapping round to hold tight. He rested his head in the crook of Jamie's neck and shoulder, felt the action echoed. Eyes closed, all he could feel was the other man, his breathing in time with his own, his arms pushed under the greatcoat to hold fast. A moment of such passionate intensity swept through him that he shivered, and found the tremor running through Carlyle as well. They held thus for a long time, breathing, being. Then they parted slowly, each easing away from the touch as if tearing away part of himself. To let go entirely was impossible, so their hands fell together and clasped, the simple touch enough.

Heavy eyed, Carlyle gave the fingers a gentle squeeze. "We could always rename the house, call it Zanzibar. Though that might confuse the locals - it took me six months to get Ned to say the word right and he's quite bright."

"You could. They'd probably just think you even more eccentric than they do already."

"Ah, yes. There are advantages to being the local oddity."

"You'll be considered even odder if this gets round." Sharpe lifted his hand, and hence the one it held, slightly.

"We'll be circumspect."

Sharpe raised his eyes to the heavens and spoke to some deity. "He considers sitting around holding hands circumspect!"

"It's better than what you did to me back by the statue!"

"Ah, yes." Sharpe wriggled slightly and his face, with slightly heightened colour, echoed his mild discomfort in that truth.

"I'm not complaining though. You can do that anytime you like, and I hope I can repay the favour..."

The instant dilation of Sharpe's pupils was answer enough.

"Good." Carlyle stood up and, as he refused to let go of his lover's fingers, Sharpe came to his feet too. "Now, do you want to walk on, or shall we go back to the nice fire that someone will have laid in the library...?"

"You'd tempt the devil you would."

"Oh, only if he looked like you..."

They both laughed softly, the teasing underpinned by solid truth.

Sharpe shrugged, he considered Carlyle had walked further than he should anyway. Going back seemed an excellent idea. "Come on then."

They walked back in silence, content to listen to the few birds that called occasionally through the wood and walk together, at ease, content. What they felt for each other was too new, to blood-searingly intense to examine too deeply, or for any duration. There would be time enough for that if they wanted. Now all they needed to do was feel. As feeling was something neither man had done in a very long time.

*

Annie Maxted met them in the great hall just as they were hanging their outer garments up. "Afternoon, you Lordship, Mr. Sharpe."

"Annie..." They both spoke her name in greeting, though it was Carlyle who went on. "It was a delicious lunch, you have been excelling your self."

She coloured in pride. "Good home cooking, that's all it was, your Lordship. All fresh, all plain. None of that fancy French stuff I heard about."

"Indeed, and please don't change the menus on our account. We ate enough foreign food when we were in Spain."

"You poor gentlemen." She sniffed, clearly seeing an army of British boys forced to eat garlic as being worse off because of that than because they were having to fight the French. "Thank the Lord that at least that's all over now."

"How true your words are." Carlyle bowed slightly to her, earning a sideways glance from Sharpe who immediately their eyes met looked away. "Mrs. Maxted, I have been meaning to speak to you."

"Yes, sir?"

"You and your women have done a splendid job around the house, and I am quite sure that most of that is due to your excellent skills in organisation."

"You're very kind, Sir. Mr. Sharpe helped enormously though." She curtsied slightly in the direction of that said gentleman who was at the moment inspecting an extremely old and repulsive painting of three dogs - at least that was what he presumed it was meant to be, it seemed unlikely that some departed Carlyle would have commissioned a portrait of his pigs.

"I'm quite aware of Mr. Sharpe's contribution to the renovation of the Carlyle household..." He ignored the noise Sharpe made, and Annie didn't notice the side exchange at all. "But I will be needing someone more permanent. Days only, and with whatever help you need from the village." He waved a hand airily. "And I was wondering if you'd accept the position." He coughed gently. "Of course, you can discuss wages and all that with my estate manager. Well?"

"I'd like that very much, sir. I did wonder, as you seemed to be taking up residence here again, and the house being in such a state and all. I can do a good job, and living out will suit me fine. I'd need funds if I was to make the place anything like it used to be..."

"We will settle for something far simpler. In fact, I believe we will be going away for a few months while the alterations are made to the building, and if possible I'd like to leave you in charge."

She almost puffed herself out of her stays in pride. "I'll be glad to. Where are you off to?"

"Around and about. In fact," he spoke conspiratorially, ignoring Sharpe who was looking at him as he had taken more than a short journey round the bend. "I'm not sure where we're going yet, I expect we'll just go where our fancy takes us."

"As long as it's not bloody Spain." Sharpe was at his side, and remarkably he looked quite amused.

"No, not Spain."

"Or Flanders."

"No, the low countries are definitely out." He grinned quickly, then bent his gaze back on his new housekeeper. "Well then, Annie, that's all sorted out then."

"Indeed, Sir." She was clearly bursting with the news, and wanted to be off.

"We'll see you in the morning?"

"Oh, yes! I've left some tea in the library and there's cold food in the pantry." She was already backing away. "Good night then, your Lordship, Mr. Sharpe."

"Good night, Annie."

"Night."

They watched as she hurried to the servants' door, then as one they turned on their heels and headed for the library.

"So, we're going abroad are we? And Annie Maxted is our new housekeeper!"

Carlyle had the grace to at least look sheepish. "I apologise, but I saw her and it all came to me, and it seemed silly not to take advantage of the moment."

"Indeed."

"Mmm."

"Incorrigible, aren't you?"

"I expect so."

Carlyle was grinning again. When he looked like that, there was nothing Sharpe could have denied him. "All right, I give in! They are both great ideas."

"I knew you'd think so too."

"But we get to organise the renovations before we go."

"Of course..."

"And we go somewhere the British army never fought."

"We'll go wherever you want." Carlyle sat himself down in a chair before the fire and nodded contentedly.

"And there'll be no problems with money for all this?"

"None at all..."

"We could tear down that outer wall, put in plumbing, both upstairs and down..." Sharpe broke off, for as he walked around to the front of Carlyle's chair a soft snore greeted him. "Worn out," he noted, his face quite softened at the endearing sight of Carlyle fast asleep, his mouth slightly open.

Sharpe turned away and poured himself a cup of tea, which though almost cold was certainly not the worst he had ever drunk. Then, with a glance at he other chair that was set before the fire, he ignored it, and lowered himself to the floor at Carlyle's feet, putting his tea-cup on the carpet and stretching his legs out before him. He was quite content. So much so that before long his head had drooped to one side to rest quite happily on the warm thigh and his eyes closed, and if he snored, there was no one to notice.

*


	11. AH....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and then there were two.

*

The next day's walk actually took them beyond the wood. Carlyle had woken full of life, and immediately after breakfast wanted to set off. Sharpe, less enamoured of mornings, had complained but gone along, his mood changing before they were a hundred yards from the house.

The weather was part of the reason. Despite being colder then the day before, the sun shone brightly and there was the first real taste of Spring in the air. Even the fauna seemed to agree with this estimation, for they saw more squirrels darting around the trees, and birds were far more plentiful, one blackbird going so far as to follow them, flitting from tree to tree in their wake as they walked away from the house.

Just the other side of the wood, the ground fell away into a valley that managed to be picturesque even in the depths of winter, and there indeed were the gypsies. Four caravans, all intricately carved and painted wood, were sat around a central fire-site, their shafts all empty and touching the ground, around and about a few tethered horses champed at the rough winter grass.

The two men stood for a while looking down at the scene, then as one they walked down the hill. Half way there, the gypsy called Danny emerged from one of the caravans and hailed them. "Hallo there!"

Carlyle raised his hand in greeting, discreetly nudging Sharpe with his elbow until he did the same. As there neared the camp-site, Danny came to meet them. "Good morning to you both!"

"Morning Danny." Carlyle looked around him. "Where's the brood?"

Sharpe realised what was missing from the scene was a parcel of brats. And a wife, or two - for who knew how many the heathens allowed themselves. He looked at the gypsy - who he was now quite prepared to think of as a genuine gypsy and not just a tinker - with a greater degree of approbation than he would have previously considered possible. Now that it was certain that Carlyle wasn't at risk to his quite outrageous charms.

Danny was grinning, his teeth white in his handsome face. "Oh, it's market day in Canterbury, so they're off there with the women."

"Leaving you behind?"

Sharpe too was curious why a man of such undeniable talent as this would stay behind on a day of such rich pickings.

"Ah, well, I had a spot of bother the other week, and there's a magistrate would like to have hold of me, so I thought it better to stay here." Danny quickly recovered from a momentary uncertainty. "And isn't it grand that I did - or I wouldn't have been here to make you two welcome!"

"How true!"

Carlyle's affectionate irony was wasted, for the gypsy was irrepressible. "Would you like some tea?"

The two friends exchanged glances and Carlyle shook his head. "No thanks, Danny." He started walking into the centre of the camp though. "How's your lady...?"

Sharpe let them talk, happy that he hadn't tried to evict the gypsy in his anger. He wandered over to one of the caravans and admired the carving. The wagons were really very lovely, the artistry involved in their making very fine. His hand followed the shape of the wood where it curved around the door, hearts and moons were cut into its surface, intricate designs of line and curve that drew the eye and hand, pleasing both. It would be an adventure to travel in one of these. To know no boundaries other than how far ones horse could walk in a day, and where work of some kind could be found. He tried to imagine Carlyle living in one of them, imagine him coping with the cramped quarters, the only provision for baths being the nearest stream. He almost laughed out loud at the thought, so outrageous did it seem. Even in Spain he had lived in as near to luxury as was possible, and the squalor of Ashcombe house had been so far out of character that it was as if it had been dreamed. No, a caravan would not be right, though for a while it might be an amusement. One summer maybe, to wend their way through the country, leisured, at peace. Maybe...

"Are you all right?" Sharpe jumped at the words, and found himself staring at a square inch of wood, quite somewhere else.

"Jamie, have you ever travelled in one of these?"

Carlyle raised a brow at the question, but settled on answering it. "One summer, I played here in the gypsy camp, though they were a different band then. I always wanted to leave with them when they pulled up the stakes and went." He looked back over his shoulder at Danny, who had just walked up to join them, and turned slightly to include him in the conversation. "Did you know I played with the gypsies one year?"

"To be sure, I knew you'd be friendly before I came."

"My father wasn't!"

Sharpe saw the end of the story. "He stopped you coming here."

"Of course. It took him a while to find out, I assume the gypsies were bribing the gamekeeper, but he did in the end, threw them off."

"Thrashed you for seeing them."

"Of course. I was going to run away, but they had gone too far and one of the grooms found me, brought me back. They never told my father."

"Thank Christ for that!"

"Mmm." Carlyle grinned quickly, his eyes going from one man to the other, entertained by the expression on both their faces. "I enjoyed that summer whilst it lasted though!"

"Thinking of taking up the life of the road then, Mr. Sharpe?" Danny patted the solid wood they were gathered around.

"No, but I was wondering what it was like."

"There's nothing like it! I don't know how you live in your houses - it must be like being in prison."

"We can leave." Carlyle's drawl was full of amusement.

"And its a damn sight warmer than this, I'd wager!" Sharpe added.

"No, you'll not convince me." The dark head shook decisively. "It's like prison."

"Prison is in your head." Carlyle was suddenly very serious, his eyes intent on the distance. "If you're free there, then no cage will bind you." He glanced at Sharpe, then away to the gypsy as if scalded. "And if you are imprisoned in your thoughts, then all the freedom in the world will be as chains. I found that out. We create prisons for ourselves, and we create our own key." He laughed wryly, his lips twisting to one side, his gaze drifting towards Sharpe again. "Though sometimes that needs a little help."

The gypsy was lost. "Freedom's an open road, no fences, and money in your pocket."

"That too."

Danny looked at them, at the way they spoke without words, and knew himself suddenly no longer wanted. He tutted to himself. "Well, if you two don't want tea, I do." He turned away, smiling.

"Thanks, Danny."

He gave a wave of dismissal as imperious as any seen on the land since Caesar commanded his legions. "Be off with you, I've a rabbit to skin as well."

"Try not to poach off any other land!"

"As if I would..." The indignant comment came back, and they all laughed.

"And try and keep out of any other sort of trouble, I've no wish to have anyone chasing you over my land."

"I'll try!"

"Good..."

"Good bye - come by when you fancy some game stew!"

"I will."

Carlyle and Sharpe walked away from the camp, glancing occasionally over their shoulders, still amused. "Cheeky bastard, isn't he?"

Carlyle nodded, without animosity. "They were starving when they got here. It's been a hard winter."

"That it has."

They were trudging back up the hill, heading homewards. The air was getting slightly colder, and as they walked their breath caught and misted.

"I'm glad you fed him and his family." Sharpe spoke the words as a grudging concession. "Though I'd rather you'd eaten something yourself first."

"I'm glad I fed them too. And the rest doesn't matter, it's gone and past. I trust you not to let me be so stupid in the future?"

"Oh ay, I'll keep an eye on you."

"Good."

Without thought they had linked hands again, and they stayed so, walking easily together until they emerged through the trees and came into sight of the house. There they let their fingers fall apart, though their arms still brushed against each other as they went, and the undercurrent of awareness that swept between them made breath faster than the exertion of walking allowed,

Once inside the house they stripped of their outdoor clothes and headed up the stairs, but a voice called them back and the midday meal was ready. Lunch they ate in almost silence, then as one they left the table, each dish barely touched, their hunger of quite a different kind.

Sharpe was the first to pull off his clothes, and he turned, quite naked and faced Carlyle. "Make love to me properly?" The question was full of doubt, as if he was uncertain of his lover's reaction.

Carlyle stilled, his hands suddenly unsteady on the fine pearl buttons of his shirt. "Today?"

"Yes."

Sharpe closed the distance between them, bringing his nakedness close to Jamie's body, offering the one thing he wanted more than any other, the one act of possession he knew mattered more than anything else. "You'll know then, that I'm yours."

"I know you are mine now..."

"Do you?"

"Ay..." Carlyle swallowed, blinking hard in the soft afternoon light. "But I do want you, not as proof, never that. But because since Spain I have dreamed of taking you, of making us one. I thought I would go mad of it, for a while. Maybe I did." He gave a very small, wry laugh. "I hurt you, before though."

"That was different."

"Yes, it was that."

"And I want you, see..." He pressed his groin to Carlyle, let him feel the hardness that jutted so demandingly from his groin. When Carlyle reached between them and touched the aching heat he arched, head lifting, hissing softly between his teeth, eyes closed.

"You like to be fucked..."

"Ay."

Carlyle bent his head and kissed the exposed line of Sharpe's throat, pulling him close, baring his teeth until a moan shuddered from the depths of the supple body. The trail of kisses and soft, sensual bites dipped lower, and twisting he took a small, flat nipple into his mouth, sucking until a hand reached and touched his head, drawing him upright into a heady kiss of mouth to avid mouth. They broke apart breathless, heavy eyed, needy.

"Take me, Jamie, please."

"Sweet heaven, Richard! I want you so much I can hardly stand, and you beg?"

"I want this, I don't want you to change your mind about it."

"I'm not." Carlyle was pushing himself out of his clothes, assisted by able, impatient fingers. "I couldn't!"

They kissed again, both naked, the warmth from the fire basting their limbs. Sharpe ran his hands through his lover's hair, feeling the skull there beneath the skin, feeling the blood pulsing under the fine skin at Jamie's temples, the way his jaw moved as he sought deeper penetration with his tongue. Away from the long hair he found so fascinating, down the long back, over the slight curve of rump, cradling the fullness there in his palms.

Carlyle backed away, blinking. "It had better be soon, or there will be no more time." He was very slightly breathless, and his words merged as if he had been drinking too deep of the headiest wine.

"Now, then. How...?"

"Which ever way you like, which is best for you?"

"Anyway..." Another kiss, hands hardly touching until their fingers skimmed down the length of their arms and wound together and they pulled apart again. "I'll bend over the bed. If you stand, it'll be easier for you."

"I'm not an invalid anymore!"

"We don't want you to be one again, either." He grinned quickly, lust darkening his eyes. "Besides, it'll be good, I promise."

"For you too?"

"With you? I can't imagine it any other way..."

Sharpe found some of the oil he had eased Carlyle's wound with then, as if involved in some arcane ritual from some bygone age, handed the flask to his lover. "Here, use this."

"Richard..."

"Ay?" Sharpe paused.

"I love you."

"And I you." He waited the space of ten heartbeats, then turned, bending across the bed in the most erotic display Carlyle had ever seen.

"Jesus..." The oil was thick on his fingers, coating his own flesh like silk, the heat of skin turning it slick and shiny. He turned to his lover's bent body and pressed a fingerfull into the dark crack offered so beguilingly, making Sharpe twist into the bed, and softly curse in impatience. "Wait, not long now..."

"Jamie!"

"I must do this." His fingers were shaking, his whole body yearning to complete the circle of their flesh. "Wait..." But then he could wait no more. The flask fell from his fingers, its oil pooling on the carpet at his feet. he cared not at all. This was Sharpe spread before him, his love, his prize, there to be claimed. He touched the curve of one hip as if reaching for the Grail, his mind and soul and body all yearning together for this union, this completion.

Taking a half step forward he stood between the spread legs and nudged his cock at the opening. The angle was wrong, so he pulled the slim hips back, until it was right, then he pressed in, holding his cock in one suddenly completely steady hand, pressing hard, using muscle and weight to open the way, gasping in counterpoint to Sharpe's cry as finally the head slipped inside and he was there.

"Richard?" He wanted to ask if there was pain, if all was well, but words, every one apart from that single name had fled his mind. "Richard..." And he slid home, deeper and deeper until the root of his cock was buried, and his balls slapped softly against skin. Sharpe arched around the intrusion, pushing back, the sounds that slipped from his mouth utterly arousing, all formless, soft, full of need and fulfillment all intertwined.

With the finest control, Carlyle pulled back, the sight of himself emerging from that body almost too much. He closed his eyes, shuddering, but he didn't come. Instead he rocked back and forth, working until he felt Sharpe's response and knew that the pleasure was there for both of them. Then he braced his legs and gave in to the desire that had haunted his dreams for so long; he fucked Richard Sharpe, hard and deep, until there was nothing in the whole universe but the union of their flesh. When Sharpe cried out and came, it was as if a firework had exploded behind his eyes; that pleasure came from this, from him, from this act. Swept up in the pleasure he shuddered and pushing deep he came, roaring silently into the air that this was pleasure, this was life, that this man was his own.

Spent, he held himself up by force of will alone, until he remembered how to pull himself free. Falling to the bed he gasped, eyes closed, hands reaching for contact, for touch. "Richard..."

A groan was the only answer and he sat, wide eyed with the certainty he had damaged or hurt or in some way destroyed that which he had taken. "Are you all right?"

There was a longish pause, then Sharpe turned over with all the elegance of a flounder, pulling himself up the bed until he was at Jamie's side, bringing the covers with him and pulling them over their naked bodies. "Bloody hell!"

"Richard! Tell me!"

Eyes, so green they startled, turned to him. They expressed nothing but contentment. "I'm fine. Just fine."

"Truly?"

"I wouldn't lie."

"No?"

"I've no need to. Come here." Carlyle found himself fitted in the curve of arm and shoulder, and knew it for a place of perfect comfort. "That was..." he waved an eloquent hand in the air, then tucked it back under the covers. "...perfect." A wide yawn split his mouth.

"Good."

"Mmm"

"Good enough to try again?"

A mumble answered him, that sounded like, "In the morning."

"It's not bed-time yet." It was still light, though twilight shadowed the room.

"Yes it is."

"Richard, you'll not sleep tonight..."

"Then we'll have to think of something else to do. Now be quiet."

Carlyle was, and the softness of the bed, and the comfort of the curving embrace, the soft snap of the fire and the darkness all allied against him. Without any conscious decision he drifted off into sleep, as did his lover, their limbs entwined, their breath soft, mingling.

*

Carlyle was reading in the library the next morning, his feet crossed at the ankle, a pot of tea at his side. He was only half concentrating on his book of verse, his thoughts more than diverted from Donne by the problem of where to take Sharpe. The trouble was, the British army had fought almost everywhere. Italy was a possibility, of course, as was Greece, though neither country was exactly peaceful. Taking Sharpe on a Grand Tout would be interesting, certainly – and he spent an amused moment wondering what the down to earth soldier would make of some of the statuary in Rome and Florence. His comments alone would be worth the journey, especially if there were any English biddies around to eavesdrop. Unless Sharpe was the one blushing...

Besides, the object wasn't to sightsee, it was simply to be together. Perhaps Egypt, or Persia. It would be warm, even now, and the idea of sun and heat was immensely appealing. They could wander through Turkey, go east from there, maybe travel around the inland sea – though perhaps Sharpe would not fancy quite such an adventure.

He looked up, resting his book on his knee, for at that moment Sharpe stepped into the room, closing the door carefully behind him. He was dressed in more of Carlyle's clothing, this time a dark green hunting coat of finest worsted, linen made snowy by Annie's efforts and his own overalls, mended to perfection by the same hand, and his own boots. In truth he looked a big rag-tag, but Carlyle only saw the whole and smiled his pleasure.

“Hello.”

“Is there tea left?”

“Mmm, shall I pour?” Carlyle sat forward, putting his book down. “What's that?”

Sharpe was carrying a parcel, wrapped in dark cloth and his expression was sombre.

“Ah. Somehing you might want back. Something I was given by Harper...”

Carlyle poured the tea, his curiosity only clumsily hidden. “He gave it to you?”

A nod.

Carlyle stirred a drip of milk into the cup. “Will I want it?”

“I hope so.” The answer was fervent.

Carlyle smiled and reached out his hand, taking the warily handed over package and starting to unwrap the cloth, until the last fold fell away, exposing a small painting in a mended wood frame. He sat quite still.

Hurriedly, Sharpe was talking into the silence. “I knew I should've tossed it away. I'm sorry, here, give it back...”

“No, Richard, it is fine.” Carlyle looked up, and took hold of Sharpe's hand where it was reaching for the painting. “It is all right. You were right to give it to me. Thank you.”

“You're not upset?”

“No.” He shrugged, and wrapped their hands tighter together. “Sad, a little. Touched. “How did Harper find it?” He gazed at the image of his dead wife and child, their memory no longer painful.

“In your room. You were dead, or so he believed and I think he wanted to make things easier for me.”

“By showing you my wife?”

“By proving you false. By making me see that you were only idling with me.” He shrugged.

“Did it help – help you to hate me?” Jamie looked up and met Sharpe's eyes, the pain in his own quite unconcealed.

“For a while. Then I found that lock of my own hair. I thought I wanted to kill you, but that wasn't all of the truth.”

“Is the lock still there?”

“Ay. He looked away. “I put it back.”

Carlyle let the memories run through his mind like grains of sand in an hourglass. He sighed softly, “I was such a fool.”

“As was I – but no regrets, remember?”

“I do. Though,” and he bit his lip, the words needing to be said. “I will always regret what I did, be sorry for the pain I brought to you. To us.”

“We could both say that.”

“Indeed.” Carlyle relaxed and smiled slightly. “Tempered, we are stronger, or so they say. I have never felt as alive as this. Being with you, well, I would not go back.”

“Nor I.”

Carlyle looked at the truth in clouded eyes, and bending his head he placed a kiss on the curving, scarred knuckles of Sharpe's hand. Then he straightened. “So we aim for less 'tempering' in the future, yes?”

Sharpe smiled, the crooked smile. “Ay.”

The End


End file.
